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V 







































HUGH WYNNE 

Free Quaker 17 

Sometime Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel on 
the Staff of His* Excellency 
General Washington 

By 

S. Weir Mitchell, M.D., LL.D., F.R.S. 

With Introduction and 
Notes by 

Vincent B. Brecht 

Head of the Department of English 
Northeast High School 
Philadelphia 



THE CENTURY CO. 
NEW YORK 
1922 



Copyright, 1896, 1897, 192^ by 
The Century Co. ''/ 



$ 1*00 

PRINTED IN U. S. A. 

/ 

DEC 20 ’22 

© Cl A C 9 2 0 5 6 




PREFATORY NOTE 


One is almost enjoined by Benjamin Franklin’s 
remark about ‘ ‘ commentators spoiling the best 
books” from prefacing any book which tells its 
story well. In this case the author has protected 
himself by writing his own preface, and that after 
all affords the best kind of an introduction to a 
book. However, it is hoped that the reader will 
notice that in the arrangement of this volume, the 
full text is given, and that the annotations are 
not intended to be exhaustive, but merely for ready 
reference, and to suggest a method for further 
investigation of the many names and places which 
are found in abundance within its covers. 

To follow in detail the historic by-paths sug- 
gested by a reading of Hugh Wynne would 
awaken such an interest in our colonial times and 
manners as to make one a fairly good student of 
early American history, and if this edition of the 
novel should accomplish such an end alone, its 
purpose would be well served. If one reads 
Hugh Wynne in the spirit which actuated the 
author himself when he wrote, he cannot fail to 
become imbued with a deeper realization of the 
significance of the events which helped to shape 
the early affairs of our country, and to feel a 


VI 


Prefatory Note 


keener and more personal interest in maintaining 
the fundamental principles which were fought for 
by the men and women of colonial times whose 
loyal and heroic actions are bodied forth in the 
story. 

Dr. Mitchell himself visited the places men- 
tioned in the novel and knew their historic back- 
grounds and settings. Then too he became so 
deeply interested in the characters themselves that 
he took the trouble to acquire the signatures of 
many of them through the descendants of the 
families whose names appear in his pages. 

The author was once asked how long it took him 
to write Hugh Wynne. 

‘ ‘ It was written in six weeks, ’ ’ was the reply. 

“Planned, blocked out and written ?” was 
asked again. 

“Everything except the seven years I have been 
thinking about it,” he replied simply. 

It is a pleasure to chat with the friends of the 
author, now living, but the anecdotal material 
thus obtainable would make a biographical sketch 
suitable here, too lengthy. Mr. Joseph Horner 
Coates, a very close friend; Mr. Maurice Abbott, 
of the Philadelphia Library Company, of which 
Dr. Mitchell was a director; Dr. John Chalmers 
DaCosta, who occasionally accompanied him on his 
historic jaunts; and Dr. J. Madison Taylor, an- 
other of his colleagues in medicine and literature, 
especially emphasized the care with which he 
sought information which would make the material 


Prefatory Note vii 

of Hugh Wynne accurate historically and geo- 
graphically. 

I wish to thank Mr. Dana H. Ferrin of New 
York for his helpful interest, and to acknowl- 
edge indebtedness to Dr. Ellis Paxson Ober- 
holtzer and Dr. Charles W. Burr, both fellow 
members with Dr. Mitchell in the Franklin Inn, 
that notable group who meet in their quaint 
building in that quaintest street of little clubs in 
the world, for biographical material and friendly 
suggestion. 

Vincent B. Brecht. 

Philadelphia, 

September 27, 1922. 













SILAS WEIR MITCHELL 


While Silas Weir Mitchell bore naturally a 
patrician, old-school air, particularly in his later 
years, and came of scholarly and intellectual fore- 
bears, he once remarked that he had come of a 
respectable family which enjoyed the very unusual 
distinction of not having arrived in the British 
Isles with William the Conqueror. As an interest- 
ing bit of literary genealogy at least, it is related 
that his great-grandfather, while an internal rev- 
enue collector in Scotland, appointed Robert 
Burns to his position as gauger. He was also the 
Mitchell alluded to by Burns in an earlier poem, 
“To Mitchell, on asking for a loan of five pounds.” 
His grandfather, Alexander Mitchell of Virginia, 
was of Scotch birth. He was known as “one of 
the ablest physicians in the Virginia valley.” 

His father, Dr. John Kearsley Mitchell, was 
born in Virginia in 1798; educated in Scotland; 
and later came to Philadelphia, where he estab- 
lished a medical practice and in 1841 became Pro- 
fessor of the Theory and Practice of Medicine in 
Jefferson Medical College. He was one of the 
strongest advocates of the germ theory when such 
a belief was not popular. He too had a strong 
ix 


X 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

bias toward literature. In fact he is said to have 
thought more highly of some of the poems he wrote 
than he did of his more widely recognized medical 
achievements. His volume Indecision , and Other 
Poems bears testimony to his skill in the field 
of versification. 

Silas Weir Mitchell, one of a family of nine 
children, was born in Philadelphia on February 
15, 1829. He was not precocious, but slowly and 
steadily reached his maturity. Once when about 
seven years old he told his mother that he had 
just seen a golden chariot with horse and trap- 
pings. She, not realizing that he like all imagina- 
tive children had in very truth seen a vision, seen 
by the physical eye the thing he dreamed of, 
chided him for untruthfulness. He felt the in- 
justice of the charge, never forgot the incident, 
and years later, during his professional life, many 
times urged parents to be careful, when their chil- 
dren related such things, not to mistake richness 
of imagination for poverty of the moral sense. 
He did not enjoy the most robust health in his 
youth and this helped to lead him into that wide 
reading of books which became a fixed habit 
throughout his life. “I just read everything I 
could get hold of” he once said. “I think I read 
every book in the Philadelphia library. I used 
to lie flat in front of the fire and read, read, read. 
Anything, everything. The History of the Incas 
of Peru for instance, — bully reading. After all, 
some people are born readers, as some are born 


XI 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


poets.’ ’ He studied at the University of Pennsyl- 
vania and then at Jefferson Medical College, grad- 
uating from the latter in 1850. After graduation 
he studied in Paris. In his later life he received 
honorary degrees from Harvard, Edinborough 
and Bologna. 

His early career in the practice of medicine was 
one of hard work and burdensome responsibilities. 
Dr. Talcott Williams, a warm personal friend and 
biographer of Dr. Mitchell, is authority for the 
statement that ten years after he began the 
practice of medicine his receipts in practice were 
only about a thousand dollars, and in that year 
he had suddenly thrown upon him the responsi- 
bility of caring for his father’s family, and was 
approaching his own marriage. 

Not content with a mere devotion to the every- 
day routine of a physician, he became a student 
of the deeper problems of the science of medicine. 
In 1853 he was elected to the Academy of the 
Natural Sciences. He read the first paper before 
the newly created biological section in 1858. He 
was one of the founders of the Pathological 
Society of Philadelphia. From the time of his 
graduation until 1863, when he assumed charge 
of an army hospital for nervous diseases, he 
had written twenty-two scientific papers. His 
most valuable contribution previous to his war 
work was his monograph on the venom of rat- 
tlesnakes. His work in the field of arrow poison 
and snake venom was epochal. His book Gun- 


xii Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

shot Wounds and other Injuries to the Nerves, 
appeared in 1864 as a result of his Civil War 
experiences and won for him scientific reputa- 
tion. 

A little book, Fat and Blood, which taught that 
tired nerves/ states of nervous irritability, sus- 
piciousness short of real delusions, terrible 
haunting ideas which terrify the victims, can often 
be cured by isolation, massage, milk diet and rest, 
brought him national and international recogni- 
tion as the originator of what is generally known 
as “the rest cure,” or the “Weir Mitchell Treat- 
ment. ’ ’ 

While he was distinguished as a physician, a 
man of science, a man of affairs, and a 
man of letters, it is principally in the last- 
named field that he is considered here. One of 
his first poems to find its way into a prominent 
magazine was “The Strasburg Clock,” first pub- 
lished anonymously in the Atlantic Monthly in 
1862, after it had been sent by Dr. W. H. Furness 
to Ralph Waldo Emerson, who in turn showed it 
to James T. Fields as the work of “an unpretend- 
ing and right lovable man.” He relates the follow- 
ing about his first work that brought pay. “I 
never could resist telling a story. While this sub- 
ject (a discussion about amputation stumps) 
was occupying my mind, a friend came in one 
evening and in our talk said ‘How much of a 
man would have to be lost in order that he should 
lose any portion of his sense of individuality ? J 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker xiii 


This odd remark haunted me, and after he had 
left I sat up most of the night manufacturing 
my first story, The Case of George Dedlow, Re- 
lated by Himself. In this tale my man had lost 
all four limbs. I left this tale in the hands of 
a delightful lady, now long dead, the sister of 
Horace Howard Furness. Then I forgot it. Dr. 
Furness, her father, sent it to Mr. Hale, editor 
of the Atlantic Monthly. To my surprise about 
three months afterward came a proof and a wel- 
come check for $85.00, my first literary earning, 
and certainly not a contribution on my part, for I 
had nothing to do with the disposal of the paper 
and had not authorized its being put into print. 
The story has had a dreadful number of successors, 
the product of my lengthening summer leisure. 
Some of them you have read to your cost. The 
unfortunate George Dedlow ’s sad account of 
himself proved so convincing that people raised 
money to help him and visited the stump hospital 
to see him. If I may judge it by one of its effects, 
George Dedlow must have seemed very real. At 
the close of my story, he — a limbless torso — is 
carried to a spiritualist meeting, where the spirits 
call up his lost legs and he capers about for a 
glorious minute. The spiritualist journals seized 
on this as a new proof of the verity of their be- 
lief. Imagine that. ’ ’ 

In 1867 the same magazine published anony- 
mously The Autobiography of a Quack. This 
was contemporary in the same publication with 


xiv Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Oliver Wendell Holmes’s Guardian Angel. 
From this time on for two decades Dr. Mitchell de- 
voted his energies to his profession. In general his 
poems and novels were the by-products of a busy 
life. While it is true that writing was secondary 
in his career, as he always considered his scientific 
and medical work of first importance, he ap- 
proached it in the same painstaking manner which 
characterized his work in his chosen profession. 
In 1880 Lippincott published three short stories in 
a volume — Hephzibah Guinness, Thee and Thou 
and A Draft on the Bank of Spain, the general 
title being that of the first-named story. Dr. 
Mitchell was then fifty years of age. He had 
followed the advice of Oliver Wendell Holmes 
not to go into literature until his professional 
position was established, lest it injure him as a 
physician, because people would say that he had 
lost his interest in his medical work. In 1884 
Houghton Mifflin & Company published In War 
Time, his first long story, the result of his ex- 
periences as a young man in the military service 
of his country. In 1887 the same publishers 
brought out Boland Blake, another novel of the 
Civil War. In 1889 Lippincott published a book 
of a different type and one of his best novels, 
Far in the Forest. In 1892 there issued from the 
press of the Century Company, who from that time 
on published most of his writings, the book Charac- 
teristics, a series of comments by a doctor, a poet, 
a sculptor, and other men with temperaments 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker xv 

and sensibilities upon a wide range of subjects. 
In 1894 appeared that charming love tale with the 
tang of the Maine woods and the Canadian wilds, 
When All the Woods Are Green. In 1896 ap- 
peared Hugh Wynne with its background of 
thirty years of American history from 1753 to 
1783, and dealing with the sorrows and reality 
of those stirring times in so absorbing a fashion 
that it captivated and held the interest of the 
reading public and brought fame to the author and 
an enviable position in the world of letters. The 
Adventures of Frangois, which contains one of the 
most delightful vagabond characters in literature, 
was published in 1898 ; Dr. North and His Friends , 
in which Dr. Mitchell pays a tribute to his father’s 
verse by quoting one of his lyrics, was printed 
in 1900 ; Circumstance in 1901 ; A Comedy of 
Conscience , which deals with a charming young 
woman with an uncompromising New England 
conscience, in 1903. In the same year came forth 
Little Stories, a book of thirteen little sketches 
in which moral philosophy is given in the guise 
of entertaining fiction. In 1904 appeared The 
Youth of Washington in which the author essays 
the rather bold literary adventure of writing an 
imaginary biography of our first President and 
putting the story into the mouth of Washington 
in his later years. Constance Trescott, a powerful 
psychological novel of which Dr. Mitchell once 
said, “That is my great book!” was published in 
1905. It dealt with a woman’s vendetta which 


XVI 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


actually came under the author’s personal obser- 
vation. A Diplomatic Adventure appeared in 
1906. Two years later he brought out The Red 
City with its historic setting of Washington’s 
second administration, and containing the char- 
acter of Hugh Wynne in the role of employer of 
the hero, a Huguenot emigre who comes to Phil- 
adelphia to work out his career. John Sherwood: 
Ironmaster bears 1911 as its date of publication. 
His last novel was Westway s (1913), which but for 
Tolstoi’s use of the title would have been called 
Peace and War. It dealt with the affairs of a 
Pennsylvania iron town during the Civil War, 
dominated socially and economically by one 
family. 

Dr. Mitchell had a wide range of subjects, 
extending through two American wars and the 
French Revolution; and dealing with the less 
heroic but not less interesting fields of his scien- 
tific and psychological studies and experiences ; and 
his travels at home and abroad. The pen of a 
doctor wielded by the hand of a poet essayed 
nearly every literary form: the novel, the short 
story, the essay, drama, and verse. In his short 
stories plot is the main thing; in his novels plot 
is of lesser consequence, analysis of character and 
creation of the atmosphere of the time he depicts 
being of chief concern. In his local delineation 
of the subtleties of character, of the complexities, 
alert yet hidden in the silent activities of human 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker xvii 


nature, he often rises to the power of Balzac, and 
at times by reason of his understanding of psy- 
chological reasoning excels him. In his poetry he 
reached a high degree of excellence of artistic 
expression. In The Ode on a Lycian Tomb he 
won the independent judgments of Thomas Bailey 
Aldrich and of Dr. Henry van Dyke that it 
is the finest elegiac poem written by an Ameri- 
can. 

Two facts in Dr. Mitchell's career stand out 
with prominence : first, that success in any field 
need not be despaired of because it delays its 
appearance until well into middle age, provided 
only that the waiting period has been devoted 
to an apprenticeship of earnest and faithful work ; 
second, that there is no essential incompatibility 
between sustained literary activity, on the one 
hand, and high professional distinction in science, 
with successful medical practice on the other. 

Dr. Mitchell is a conspicuous example of the 
fact that an active pursuit of science and literature 
can co-exist with benefit to both. His life is a 
complete refutation of the fallacy that there is a 
time limit to a man's capacity for original work. 
His physical and literary longevity were remark- 
able. John Sherwood and Westivays are notable 
achievements for a man over eighty years of age. 
Bayard Taylor died at the age of fifty-three and 
that was fourteen years before Dr. Mitchell in 
his literary career had had his first real success, 


xviii Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


and before he had acquired that leisure which 
made possible the attainment of one of the cher- 
ished goals of his young manhood. 

Never was there a writer who so conserved the 
art of friendship, so practised it, so knew all its 
ranging, and who perpetually was ready, if an- 
other failed or forgot, to forgive and to act. 
In some of his dedications he pays a tribute to 
his New York friendship with William Dean 
Howells, Richard Watson Gilder, Dr. John S. Bil- 
lings and John Lambert Cadwalader. In his own 
city with Henry C. Lea and Horace Howard Fur- 
ness he formed what another friend called Philadel- 
phia ’s triumvirate of eminent men. He became the 
moving spirit of a coterie of Philadelphia’s literary 
men who in 1902 founded the Franklin Inn. He 
was its first president and was one of its most 
active members until his death on January 4, 1914. 
With Harrison S. Morris and a few others, occa- 
sionally joined at the luncheon hour by F. Hop- 
kinson Smith and Dr. Henry van Dyke, he formed 
a regular group known as “The Southwest Cor- 
ner.” In his later years he set great store by his 
friendships and many were the feasts of reason and 
flowings of soul which the pleasant wood fire of 
his study inspired on those memorable “Saturday 
evenings” over which he presided with the dignity 
and in which he entertained with the hospitality 
of an older day. 

Dr. Mitchell was twice married. His first wife 
was Mary Elwyn. Their children were John 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker xix 


Kearsley Mitchell and Langdon Elwyn Mitchell. 
The former made the fourth generation of 
Mitchells! in one family to distinguish them- 
selves in the field of medicine. While devoted 
to a large practice he found time to cultivate the 
arts of literature. The latter is well known as 
the author of The New York Idea , in which his 
wife Marian Lea had acted the leading role, and 
as the author of the dramatization of Becky Sharp 
and The Adventures of Frangois. Dr. Mitchell’s 
second wife was Miss Mary Cadwalader of New 
York. She became, as he said, his “best literary 
critic.” Their daughter Mary, who died before 
his own time of passing away, was the critic of 
the French words and phrases of Hugh Wynne. 

One of the finest tributes to Dr. Mitchell was 
paid near the end of his career when a friend said, 
“The world will know the books he has written, 
but not all will know the men he has helped.” 
Again the feeling he inspired in others is expressed 
in another ’s remark, ‘ 1 There are a wisdom and self- 
confidence and a distinct aristocracy of culture in 
his face, while above all one feels in his presence 
a sense of his increasing respect for truth in life 
and in fiction.” 

In his later years particularly, when he received 
in his home or appeared in public gatherings, his 
bearing brought home the truth of Owen Wister’s 
description of him after he saw him passing one 
day before Independence Hall: “He and it match 
each other pretty well.” And if age brought its 


XX 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

furrows to his face it brought them in the spirit 
of a line which Dr. Mitchell himself once wrote 
in a letter to a friend from abroad in describing 
a castle: “Time and ivy have ruined it into mag- 
nificence. ’ ’ 

Few men of letters have had so wide a sphere 
of individual achievement and have brought more 
honor to the immediate community which they 
served thereby than he. Nor have many writers in 
prose or verse struck a more consistently patriotic 
note. He left a rich heritage of friendships in 
the actual life in which he moved, and the more 
enduring heritage of ideals which his books em- 
body for the generations of the future. 


A SCHOOLBOY’S GLIMPSE OF 
DR. MITCHELL 


1 ‘ When we first visited Dr. Mitchell at his 
home on Walnut Street (Number 1524) it was 
our misfortune to find him not at home, but on 
explaining to his secretary the purpose of our visit, 
she assured us that he would be delighted to see 
us as he had always shown a cordiality to boys. 

“When we next came her words were verified, 
for the Doctor himself met us at his office door, and 
on being informed that we were boys from the 
Northeast High School, he brightened up with a 
sudden interest and ushered us into his study. As 
he sat before his desk we caught a glimpse of his 
face, thinned and somewhat wrinkled, but strong- 
set and with a certain alert, good-humored ex- 
pression. 

“He immediately expressed a desire to hear all 
about our school and asked us many questions 
concerning the character of the work and the pur- 
pose in combining manual with scholastic training. 
The conversation turned to his books and stories of 
the old historic days in Philadelphia, and imme- 
diately he was immersed in historic romantic as- 
sociations and brought forth from the corners of 
his desk documents of Revolutionary times and 
xxi 


xxii Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

pictures of old Philadelphia. He showed us the 
originals of the pictures in Hugh Wynne, his 
famous Revolutionary novel, and mentioned several 
spots in Philadelphia which are rich with remem- 
brances of Revolutionary days and told us of the 
events which happened there. He also showed us 
some relics of those days which had come into his 
possession together with numerous specimens of 
art and sculpture of both Europe and America. 

“When we were about to leave, he promised to 
give us his own portrait and autograph. After 
hunting around for a while he procured three dif- 
ferent styles of portrait and told us to take our 
choice, which we did. As he was quite busy he said 
we should come the following day and he would 
then have time to write his autograph on it for us. 

“When we called the next day he had the picture 
with his autograph (‘I was much refreshed by your 
visit, S. Weir Mitchell’) and a small poem ( A 
Prayer after Santiago |) wrapped up and ready. 
Although he was very busy he took time to thank 
us ..courteously for the interest we had afforded 
him. We thought this a mistake, as we had been 
the ones interested and felt highly honored to be 
the guest of such a distinguished scholar. 

“Those pleasant hours will always be remem- 
bered and treasured by us.” 

( The above is an account written at the time, 
May, 1904, by one of my students after a visifi 
made to Dr. Mitchell.) 


APPRECIATIONS OF HUGH WYNNE. 


Dr. Mitchell speaks of real people by their real 
names, and of real places in such number that 
on more than one occasion college professors of 
history have set their students at work to find 
out more about and to write of the scenes and men 
mentioned in his pages. So far as I know not one 
very material error was ever discovered in Hugh 
Wynne, from the historical standpoint. Dr. Mitch- 
ell, with a view to accuracy, even included a map 
in the book to show the position of the British 
troops during the occupation of the city, with rela- 
tion to the roads and ferries. The investigations 
were carefully made in the Library of the Histor- 
ical Society of Pennsylvania. 

Wynne, himself a scion of Thomas Wynne, the 
Welsh Quaker physician who accompanied Penn 
in The Welcome, was an ancestor of many Phila- 
delphians, among the number Francis Howard 
Williams who a few years ago founded the Wel- 
come Society (our Mayflower Society). Indeed, 
the name itself survives, and a direct descendant 
bearing it still sits in the old Merion Meeting 
House where the Wynnes worshiped and were 
buried in the day that Dr. Mitchell tells of. The 
xxiii 


xxiv Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

author always steeped himself in a subject before 
writing of it and reflected his interest in it in the 
presence of his friends in inquiry and anecdote 
while his work was in progress. For Hugh Wynne 
he read such old documents as Sally Wister’s and 
Elizabeth Drinker’s Journals and Charles Biddle’s 
Autobiography. The great local antiquarian 
knowledge of the late Librarian Stone of the His- 
torical Society was drawn upon, and the result 
must be counted noteworthy to a degree. 

It has been said that Dr. Mitchell found some 
suggestions for Hugh Wynne in Jones’s old book 
The Quaker Soldier and in Henry Peterson’s 
Pemberton, but I think he was a borrower to no 
great extent. At any rate historical incident is no 
man’s possession and the dress which was given it 
under his hand is his very own. 

In Hugh Wynne, without disparagement of that 
which he had earlier used, he came into a style 
which was at once elegant, as one time was said of 
style, and distinguished. The motion is soft and 
dignified. Wynne tells his own story like one of 
the old diarists, but with a temper and in an Eng- 
lish which they did not know, or, knowing it, cer- 
tainly could not put to any sustained or regular 
use. 

— From “An Appreciation of S. Weir Mitchell 
as a Novelist,” by Dr. Ellis Paxson Oberholt- 
zer, author of “A Literary History of Phila- 
delphia,” etc. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker xxv 


In Hugh Wynne , Dr. Mitchell reached high- 
water mark. It is no common book/ but a real ro- 
mance which holds the attention of the young, and 
in the work of attempting to Americanize the Am- 
ericans, going on to-day, much good would result 
if every boy of foreign parentage were given the 
book to read. Every youth would read it with 
pleasure and get the profit unconsciously. Such 
reading would teach true patriotism and would 
overcome much unwise psychology imbibed from 
the silly people who call themselves the intellectuals. 

— From “The S. Weir Mitchell Memorial Orar 
tion delivered before the College of Physi- 
cians of Philadelphia, November 19, 1919,” 
by Dr. Charles W. Burr. 

Good historical novels are so rare that the ap- 
pearance of one becomes an event of importance. 
Hugh Wynne is wholly simple and unexaggerated 
in language. It flows lucidly and agreeably. But 
it may be added that it has that indefinable thing 
called charm. 

— Charles Dudley Warner in Harper y s Mag a - 
zine. 

Hugh Wynne has the distinction of belonging 
with the few great historical novels of American' - ’ 
life produced by American writers. No finer and 
more highly executed presentation of the War of 
the Revolution has ever been focused in fiction. 
It is full of characters, real and imaginative, which 


xxvi Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


one and all clamor for honorable mention. It ap- 
proximates more nearly than any novel we know 
to what may be regarded as the only great novel of 
early American life and history. 

— The Bookman. 

Hugh Wynne was the proof of his change from 
the novel of apothegm to romance. Our Revo- 
lution, the change in it from English tradition to 
American spirit, our social life, our mingling of 
democratic institutions and aristocratic instincts, 
have here their complete canvass. It is written 
with amazing care. Care alone will not bring 
style, but it spares the reader the slovenly sentence 
to which the fiction of our tongue is prone even 
from hands whose fame screens criticism, and in 
these pages and others it has given that sense of 
the personal which is the very soul of style. The 
structure of this romance follows tradition. Novels 
did not begin yesterday. But I am sorry for the 
man who is not a better American after reading 
Hugh Wynne. The root of the matter is not in 
him. 

— Dr. Talcott Williams in The Book News 
Monthly. 

His narrative prose often resembles the prose of 
the essay, rather than that of fiction ; yet in spite 
of this and the usually quiet action of his novels, 
their success increased until with Hugh Wynne it 
became a popular triumph and was heard of in 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker xxvii 


.Wales, where many real original Wynnes are 
buried. There once in a graveyard the sexton 
pointed out their tombs to Dr. Mitchell, not know- 
ing who he was, and said that the present head of 
the family now lived in America and his name was 
Hugh Wynne. 

No other tale of the Revolution has approached 
it, or is so well remembered, and therefore a wide 
audience waited for every new novel by Dr. Mitch- 
ell. 

Where do Hugh Wynne and Westways go? 
Though written by a poet at heart, they stand with 
Trollope and Fielding because they are friendly to 
mankind. They belong to what I call the Litera- 
ture of Encouragement ; they are written with sym- 
pathy not with misanthropy. 

— Owen Wister, in “S. Weir Mitchell: Man 

of Letters.” 


























LIST OF WORKS OF S. WEIR MITCHELL 


Hephzibah Guinness, 1880 

In War Time, 1884 

Roland Blake, 1887 

Far in the Forest, 1889 

Characteristics, 1892 

When All the Woods Are Green, 1894 

Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker, 1896 

The Adventures of Francois, 1898 

Dr. North and His Friends, 1900 

Circumstance, 1901 

A Comedy of Conscience, 1903 

The Youth of Washington, 1904 

Constance Trescott, 1905 

A Diplomatic Adventure, 1906 

The Red City, 1908 

John Sherwood: Ironmaster, 1911 

Westways, 1913 


The Autobiography of a Quack, 1990 
A Madeira Party, 1895 
The Guillotine Club, 1910 
Little Stories, 1913 
Mr. Kris Kringle, 1904 

New Samaria and Summer of St. Martin, 1904 
Prince Little Boy, 1898 
A Venture in 1777, 1908 
Pearl 

The Wager and Other Poems, 1900 

The Comfort of the Hills, 1910 

The Hill of Stones and Other Poems, 1882 

xxix 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


A Masque and Other Poems, 1887 
The Cup of Youth and Other Poems, 1889 
A Psalm of Death and Other Poems, 1891 
Francis Drake: a Tragedy of the Sea, 1892 
The Mother and Other Poems, 1892 
The Complete Poems of Dr. Mitchell, 1914 


Gunshot Wounds, 1864 

Doctor and Patient, 1904 

Wear and Tear: Hints for the Overworked, 1871 

Clinical Lessons on Nervous Diseases, 1897 

Fat and Blood, 1907 

Researches upon Anatomy and Physiology of Respiration 
in Chelonia, 1905 

Composition of Expired Air and Its Effects upon Animal 
Life, 1895 

Some Recently Discovered Letters of William Harvey, 1912, 
and about one hundred and twenty-five papers on Medical 
subjects. (See Scientific and Literary work of S. Weir 
Mitchell . ) 


XXX 


SUGGESTED READINGS 


FICTION 

A Venture in 1777 — S. Weir Mitchell 

The Red City— S. Weir Mitchell 

Pemberton — Henry Peterson 

Cliveden — Kenyon West 

The Quaker Soldier — John R. Jones 

The Quaker City — George Lippard 

The Battle Day of Germantown — George Lippard 

Washington and his Generals — George Lippard T 

The Monks of W T issahickon — George Lippard 

Paul Ardenheim — George Lippard 

Blanche of Brandywine — George Lippard 

In Blue and White — Elbridge S. Brooks 

Valley Forge — W. Allen Quinby 

In Hostile Red — J. A. Altsheler 

The Boys of ’76 — Charles Carlton Coffin 

Mad Anthony’s Young Scout — E. T. Tomlinson 

My Lady of Doubt — Randall Parrish 

Cadet Days — General Charles King 

Won in Warfare — Charles Kenyon 

Hearts Courageous — Hallie E. Rives 

For King or Country — James Barnes 

The Spy — James Fenimore Cooper 

Janice Meredith — Paul Leicester Ford 

The Crossing — Winston Churchill 

In the Days of Poor Richard — Irving Bacheller 

REFERENCE 

The American Revolution — John Fiske 

The Making of Pennsylvania — Sidney George Fisher 

xxx i 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Annals of Philadelphia and Pennsylvania — John F. 
Watson 

The Romance of Old Philadelphia — John T. Faris 
Early Philadelphia — Horace Mather Lippincott 
A Quaker Experiment in Government— Isaac Sharpless 
Roads out of Philadelphia — John T. Faris 
Through Colonial Doorways — Anne Hollingsworth Wharton 
Philadelphia, the Place and People — Agnes Repplier 
Memoirs — Alexander Graydon 

Memorial History of Philadelphia — John Russell Young 
History of Philadelphia — Scharf and Wescott 
Historic Mansions of Philadelphia — Thompson Wescott 
Independence Hall — Frank M. Etting 
Washington in Germantown — Charles F. Jenkins 
Guide Book to Historic Germantown — Charles F. Jenkins 
William Penn — Rupert Sargent Holland 
The True George Washington — Paul Leicester Ford 
Benjamin Franklin — John Bach McMaster 
Worthy Women of our First Century — Sarah Butler Wister 
A Literary History of Philadelphia — Ellis Paxson Ober- 
holtzer 

The Book of Philadelphia — Robert Shackleton 


Preface to Nineteenth Edition 


Since Hugh Wynne was published in book form in 
1896, it has been many times reprinted, and now 
that again there is need for a new edition, I use a 
desired opportunity to rectify some mistakes in 
names, dates, and localities. These errors were of 
such a character as to pass unnoticed by the ordi- 
nary reader and disturb no one except the local 
archaeologist or those who propose to the novelist 
that he Shall combine the accuracy of the historical 
scholar with the creative imagination of the writer 
of what, after all, is fiction. 

i Nevertheless, the desire of the scientific mind 
even in the novel is for all reasonable accuracy, and 
to attain it I used for six years such winter leisures 
as the exacting duties of a busy professional life 
permitted, to collect notes of the dress, hours, 
sports, habits and talk of the various types of men 
and women I meant to delineate. I burned a hun- 
dred pages of these carefully gathered materials 
soon after I had found time, in a summer holiday* 
xxxiii 


XXXIV 


Preface 


to write the book for which these notes were so 
industriously gathered. 

It is probable that no historical novel was ever 
paid the compliment of the close criticism of details 
which greeted Hugh Wynne. I was most largely in 
debt for the pointing out of errors in names and 
localities to a review of my book in a journal de- 
voted to the interest of one of the two divisions of 
the Society of Friends. 

I deeply regretted at the time that my useful 
critic should have considered my novel as a delib- 
erately planned attack on the views entertained by 
Friends. It was once again an example of the as- 
sumption that the characters of a novel in their 
opinions and talk represent the author’s personal 
beliefs. I was told by my critic that John 'Wynne 
is presented as “the type of the typical character 
of the Friends.” As well might Bishop Proudie be 
considered as representative of the members and 
views of the Church of England or Mr. Tulking- 
horn of the English lawyer. 

A man’s course in life does not always represent 
simple obedience to the counsels of perfection im- 
plied in an accepted creed of conduct, but is modi- 
fied by his own nature. He may therefore quite 
fail to secure from his beliefs that which they pro- 
duce in more assimilative natures. Age softens 


Preface 


xxxv 


some hard characters, but in John Wynne the early 
development of senile dementia deprived him of 
this chance. I drew a peculiar and happily a rare 
type of man who might have illustrated failure to 
get the best out of any creed. 

The course of this great revolutionary struggle 
made or marred many men, and the way in which 
such a time affects character affords to the novel of 
history its most interesting material. 

Erroneous statements in regard to the time and 
place of Friends’ Meetings have been pointed out. 
As concerns these and the like, I may here state 
that the manuscript of my novel was read with 
care by a gentleman who was a birthright member 
of the Society and both by age and knowledge com- 
petent to speak. He remarked upon some of my 
technical errors in regard to the meetings and dis- 
cipline of Friends, but advised against change and 
said that it was traditionally well known that at 
the time of the Revolution there was much confu- 
sion in their assemblies and great bitterness of feel- 
ing when so many like Wetherill chose to revolt 
against the doctrine of absolute obedience to what, 
whether rightfully or not, they regarded as oppres- 
sion. Needless to say that I meant no more than 
to delineate a great spiritual conflict in a very in- 
teresting body of men who, professing neutrality, 


XXXVI 


Preface 


were, if we may trust Washington, anything but 
neutral. 

The amount of accuracy to be allowed in historic 
fiction aroused fresh interest when Hugh Wynne 
first appeared. In romances like Quentin Durward 
and Ivanhoe the question need not be considered. 
What may annoy the historian in the more serious 
novel of history does not trouble the ordinary 
reader nor does it detract from the interest of the 
story. How little the grossest errors in biography 
and history affect the opinions of the public con- 
cerning a novel long popular may be illustrated by 
the fact that one of my critics referred me to Henry 
Esmond for an example of desirable accuracy. It 
was an unfortunate choice, for in Esmond there is 
hardly a correct historical statement. The Duke 
of Hamilton described as about to marry Beatrix 
was the husband of a second living wife and the 
father of seven children— an example of contem- 
plated literary bigamy which does not distress the 
happily ignorant, nor are they at all troubled by 
the many other and even more singular errors in 
statement, some of them plainly the result of care- 
lessness. A novel, it seems, may sin sadly as con- 
cerns historic facts and yet survive. 

The purpose of the novel is, after all, to be ac- 
ceptably interesting. If it be historical, the his- 1 


Preface 


XXXVll 


toric people should not be the constantly present 
heroes of the hook. The novelist’s proper use of 
them is to influence the fates of lesser people and 
to give the reader such sense of their reality as in 
the delineation of characters, is rarely possible for 
the historian. 

With these long intended comments, I leave this 
book to the many readers whose wants a new edi- 
tion is meant to supply. I may say in conclusion 
that I should have been less eager to alter, correct, 
and explain if it were not that in schools and col- 
leges Hugh Wynne has been and is still used in a 
variety of ways so that the example of accuracy 
and a definition of its desirable extent in historic 
fiction becomes in some sense a literary duty. 

S. Weir Mitchell. 


August, 1908. 



Hugh Wynne 


INTRODUCTORY 

T is now many years since I began these 
memoirs. I wrote fully a third of them, 
and then put them aside, having found 
increasing difficulties as I went on with 
my task. These arose out of the con- 
stant need to use the first person in a narrative of 
adventure and incidents which chiefly concern the 
writer, even though it involve also the fortunes of 
many in all ranks of life. Having no gift in the 
way of composition, I knew not how to supply or 
set forth what was outside of my own knowledge, 
nor how to pretend to that marvellous insight, as to 
motives and thoughts, which they affect who write 
books of fiction. This has always seemed to me 
absurd, and so artificial that, with my fashion of 
mind, I have never been able to enjoy such works nor 
agreeably to accept their claim to such privilege of 



2 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


insight. In a memoir meant for my descendants, it 
was fitting and desirable that I should at times speak 
of my own appearance, and, if possible, of how I seemed 
as child or man to others. This, I found, I did not 
incline to do, even when I myself knew what had 
been thought of me by friend or foe. And so, as I 
said, I set the task aside, with no desire to take it 
up again. 

Some years later my friend, John Warder, died, 
leaving to my son, his namesake, an ample estate, 
and to me all his books, papers, plate, and wines. 
Locked in a desk, I found a diary, begun when a lad, 
and kept, with more or less care, during several years 
of the great war. It contained also recollections of 
our youthful days, and was very full here and there 
of thoughts, comments, and descriptions concerning 
events of the time, and of people whom we both 
had known. It told of me much that I could not 
otherwise have willingly set down, even if the mat- 
ter had appeared to me as it did to him, which was 
not always the case ; also my friend chanced to have 
been present at scenes which deeply concerned me, 
but which, without his careful setting forth, would 
never have come to my knowledge. 

A kindly notice, writ nine years before, bade me 
use his journal as seemed best to me. When I read 
this, and came to see how full and clear were his 
statements of much that I knew, and of some things 
which I did not, I felt ripely inclined to take up 
again the story I had left unfinished; and now I 
have done so, and have used my friend as the third 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


3 


person, whom I could permit to say what he thought 
of me from time to time, and to tell of incidents I 
did not see, or record impressions and emotions of 
his own. This latter privilege pleases me because I 
shall, besides my own story, be able to let those dear 
to me gather from the confessions of his journal, and 
from my own statements, what manner of person 
was the true gentleman and gallant soldier to whom 
I owed so much. 

I trust this tale of an arduous struggle by a new 
land against a great empire will make those of my 
own blood the more desirous to serve their coun- 
try with honour and earnestness, and with an abiding 
belief in the great Ruler of events. 

In my title of this volume I have called myself a 
“ Free Quaker.” The term has no meaning for most 
of the younger generation, and yet it should tell a 
story of many sad spiritual struggles, of much heart- 
searching distress, of brave decisions, and of battle 
and of camp. 

At Fifth and Arch streets, on an old gable, is this 
record : 

By General Subscription, 

For the Free Quakers. 

Erected a. d. 1783, 

Op the Empire, 8. 

In the burying-ground across the street, and in 
and about the sacred walls of Christ Church, not far 
away, lie Benjamin Franklin, Francis Hopkinson, 
Peyton Randolph, Benjamin Rush, and many a gal- 
lant soldier and sailor of the war for freedom. 


4 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Among them, at peace forever, rest the gentle-folks 
who stood for the king— the gay men and women who 
were neutral, or who cared little under which George 
they danced or gambled or drank their old Madeira. 
It is a neighbourhood which should be forever full of 
interest to those who love the country of our birth. 


I 


CHILD’S early life is such as those who 
rule over him make it ; hut they can only 
modify what he is. Yet, as all know, 
after their influence has ceased, the man 
himself has to deal with the effects of 
blood and breed, and, too, with the consequences of 
the mistakes of his elders in the way of education. 
For these reasons I am pleased to say something of 
myself in the season of my green youth. 

The story of the childhood of the great is often of 
value, no matter from whom they are “ ascended,” 
as my friend Warder used to say; but even in the 
lives of such lesser men as I, who have played the 
part of simple pawns in a mighty game, the change 
from childhood to manhood is not without interest. 

I have often wished we could have the recorded 
truth of a child’s life as it seemed to him day by day, 
but this can never be. The man it is who writes the 
life of the boy, and his recollection of it is perplexed 
by the siftings of memory, which let so much of 
thought and feeling escape, keeping little more than 
barren facts, or the remembrance of periods of trou- 
ble or of emotion, sometimes quite valueless, while 
more important moral events are altogether lost. 

5 




6 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


As these pages will show, I have found it agree- 
able, and at times useful, to try to understand, as 
far as in me lay, not only the men who were my cap- 
tains or mates in war or in peace, but also myself. I 
have often been puzzled by that well-worn phrase 
as to the wisdom of knowing thyself, for with what 
manner of knowledge you know yourself is a grave 
question, and it is sometimes more valuable to know 
what is truly thought of you by your nearest friends 
than to be forever teasing yourself to determine 
whether what you have done in the course of your 
life was just what it should have been. 

I may be wrong in the belief that my friend War- 
der saw others more clearly than he saw himself. 
He was of that opinion, and he says in one place that 
he is like a mirror, seeing all things sharply except 
that he saw not himself. Whether he judged me 
justly or not, I must leave to others to decide. I 
should be glad to think that, in the great account, I 
shall be as kindly dealt with as in the worn and 
faded pages which tell brokenly of the days of our 
youth. I am not ashamed to say that my eyes have 
filled many times as I have lingered over these 
records of my friend, surely as sweet and true a 
gentleman as I have ever known. Perhaps some- 
times they have even overflowed at what they 
read. Why are we reluctant to confess a not ignoble 
weakness, such as is, after all, only the heart’s con- 
fession of what is best in life? What becomes of 
the tears of age? 

This is but a wearisome introduction, and yet 


7 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

necessary, for I desire to use freely my friend’s jour- 
nal, and this without perpetual mention of his name, 
save as one of the actors who played, as I did, a 
modest part in the tumult of the war, in which my 
own fortunes and his were so deeply concerned. To 
tell of my own life without speaking freely of the 
course of a mighty story would be quite impossible. 
I look back, indeed, with honest comfort on a strug- 
gle which changed the history of three nations, but 
I am sure that the war did more for me than I for 
it. This I saw in others. Some who went into it 
unformed lads came out strong men. In others its 
temptations seemed to find and foster weaknesses of 
character, and to cultivate the hidden germs of evil. 
Of all the examples of this influence, none has seemed 
to me so tragical as that of General Arnold, because, 
being of reputable stock and sufficient means, gen- 
erous, in every-day life kindly, and a free-handed 
friend, he was also, as men are now loath to believe, 
a most gallant and daring soldier, a tender father, 
and an attached husband. The thought of the fall 
of this man fetches back to me, as I write, the re- 
membrance of my own lesser temptations, and with 
a thankful heart I turn aside to the uneventful story 
of my boyhood and its surroundings. 

I was born in the great city Governor William 
Penn founded, in Pennsylvania, on the banks of the 
Delaware, and my earliest memories are of the broad 
river, the ships, the creek before our door, and of 
grave gentlemen in straight-pollared coats and broad- 
brimmed beaver hats. 


8 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

I began life in a day of stern rule, and among a 
people who did not concern themselves greatly as to 
a child’s having that inheritance of happiness with 
which we like to credit childhood. Who my people 
were had much to do with my own character, and 
what those people were and had been it is needful to 
say before I let my story run its natural and, I hope, 
not uninteresting course. 

In my father’s bedroom, over the fireplace, hung a 
pretty picture done in oils, by whom I know not. It 
is now in my library. It represents a pleasant park, 
and on a rise of land a gray Jacobean house, with, 
at either side, low wings curved forward, so as to 
embrace a courtyard shut in by railings and gilded 
gates. There is also a terrace with urns and flowers. 
I used to think it was the king’s palace, until, one 
morning, when I was still a child, Friend Pember- 
ton came to visit my father with William Logan and 
a very gay gentleman, Mr. John Penn, he who was 
sometime lieutenant-governor of the province, and of 
whom and of his brother Richard great hopes were 
conceived among Friends. I was encouraged by 
Mr. Penn to speak more than was thought fitting 
for children in those days, and because of his rank 
I escaped the reproof I should else have met with. 

He said to my father , t( The boy favours thy people.” 
Then he added, patting my head, “ When thou art 
a man, my lad, thou shouldst go and see where thy 
people came from in Wales. I have been at Wyn- 
cote. It is a great house, with wings in the Italian 
manner, and a fine fountain in the court, and gates 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 9 


which were gilded when Charles II. came to see the 
squire, and which are not to be set open again until 
another king comes thither.” 

Then I knew this was the picture upstairs, and 
much pleased I said eagerly: 

“ My father has it in his bedroom, and our arms 
below it, all painted most beautiful.” 

“ Thou art a clever lad,” said the young lieutenant- 
governor, “ and I must have described it well. Let 
us have a look at it, Friend Wynne.” 

But my mother, seeing that William Logan and 
Friend Pemberton were silent and grave, and that my 
father looked ill pleased, made haste to make ex- 
cuse, because it was springtime and the annual house- 
cleaning was going on. 

Mr. Penn cried out merrily, “ I see that the elders 
are shocked at thee, Friend Wynne, because of these 
vanities of arms and pictures; but there is good 
heraldry on the tankard out of which I drank James 
Pemberton’s beer yesterday. Fie, fie, Friend J ames ! ” 
Then he bowed to my mother very courteously, and 
said to my father, “ I hope I have not got thy boy 
into difficulties because I reminded him that he is 
come of gentles.” 

“No, no,” said my mother. 

“I know the arms, madam, and well too: quar- 
terly, three eagles displayed in fesse, and—” 

“Thou wilt pardon me, Friend Penn,” said my 
father, curtly. “ These are the follies of a world which 
concerns not those of our society. The lad’s aunt has 
put enough of such nonsense into his head already.” 


IO 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ Let it pass, then,” returned the young lieutenant- 
governor, with good humour ; “ hut I hope, as I said, 
that I have made no trouble for this stout boy of 
thine.” 

My father replied deliberately, “ There is no harm 
done.” He was too proud to defend himself, but I 
heard long after that he was taken to task by Thomas 
Scattergood and another for these vanities of arms 
and pictures. He told them that he put the picture 
where none saw it but ourselves, and, when they per- 
sisted, reminded them sharply, as Mr. Penn had done, 
of the crests on their own silver, by which these 
Friends of Welsh descent set much store. 

I remember that, when the gay young lieutenant- 
governor had taken his leave, my father said to my 
mother, “ Was it thou who didst tell the boy this fool- 
ishness of these being our arms and the like, or was 
it my sister Gainor ? ” 

Upon this my mother drew up her brows, and 
spread her palms out,— a French way she had,— and 
cried, “Are they not thy arms? Wherefore should 
we be ashamed to confess it ? ” 

I suppose this puzzled him, for he merely added, 
“ Too much may be made of such vanities.” 

All of this I but dimly recall. It is one of the 
earliest recollections of my childhood, and, being out 
of the common, was, I suppose, for that reason better 
remembered. 

I do not know how old I was when, at this time, 
Mr. Penn, in a neat wig with side rolls, and dressed 
very gaudy, aroused my curiosity as to these folks in 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 1 1 

Wales. It was long after, and only by degrees, that 
I learned the following facts, which were in time to 
have a great influence on my own life and its varied 
fortunes. 

In or about the year 1671, and of course before 
Mr. Penn, the proprietary, came over, my grandfather 
had crossed the sea, and settled near Chester on 
lands belonging to the Swedes. The reason of his 
coming was this : about 1669 the Welsh of the Eng- 
lish church and the magistrates were greatly stirred 
to wrath against the people called Quakers, because 
of their refusal to pay tithes. Among these offen- 
ders was no small number of the lesser gentry, espe- 
cially they of Merionethshire. 

My grandfather, Hugh Wynne, was the son and 
successor of Godfrey Wynne, of Wyncote. How 
he chanced to be born among these hot-blooded 
Wynnes I do not comprehend. He is said to have 
been gay in his early days, but in young manhood to 
have become averse to the wild ways of his breed, 
and to have taken a serious and contemplative turn. 
Falling in with preachers of the people called Qua- 
kers, he left the church of the establishment, gave up 
hunting, ate his game-cocks, and took to straight col- 
lars, plain clothes, and plain talk. When he refused 
to pay the tithes he was fined, and at last cast into 
prison in Shrewsbury Gate House, where he lay for 
a year, with no more mind to be taxed for a hire- 
ling ministry at the end of that time than at the 
beginning. 

His next brother, William, a churchman as men 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


i 2 


go, seems to have loved him, although he was him- 
self a rollicking fox-hunter ; and, seeing that Hugh 
would die if left in this duress, engaged him to go to 
America. Upon his agreeing to make over his estate 
to William, those in authority readily consented to 
his liberation, since William had no scruples as to 
the matter of tithes, and with him there would be no 
further trouble. Thus it came about that my grand- 
father Hugh left Wales. He had with him, I pre- 
sume, enough of means to enable him to make a 
start in Pennsylvania. It could not have been much. 
He carried also, what no doubt he valued, a certifi- 
cate of removal from the Quarterly Meeting held at 
Tyddyn y Garreg. I have this singular document. 
In it is said of him and of his wife, Ellin (“for 
whom it may concern ”), that “ they are faithfull and 
beloved Friends, well known to be serviceable unto 
Friends and brethren, since they have become con- 
vinced; of a blameless and savory conversation. 
Also are P’sons Dearly beloved of all Souls. His 
testimony sweet and tender, reaching to the quicking 
seed of life ; we cannot alsoe but bemoan the want 
of his company, for that in difficult occasion he was 
sted-fast— nor was one to be turned aside. He is now 
seasonable in intention for the Plantations, in order 
into finding his way clear, and freedom in the truth 
according to the measure manifested unto him,” etc. 

And so the strong-minded man is commended to 
Friends across the seas. In the records of the meet- 
ings for sufferings in England are certain of his let- 
ters from the jail. How his character descended to 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


*3 


my sterner parent, and, through another generation, 
to me, and how the coming in of my mother’s gen- 
tler blood helped in after-days, and amid stir of 
war, to modify in me, this present writer, the ruder 
qualities of my race, I may hope to set forth. 

William died suddenly in 1679 without children, 
and was succeeded by the third brother, Owen. This 
gentleman lived the life of his time, and, dying in 
1700 of much beer and many strong waters, left one 
son, Owen, a minor. What with executors and other 
evils, the estate now went from ill to worse. Owen 
Wynne 2d was in no haste, and thus married as late as 
somewhere about 1740, and had issue, William, and 
later, in 1744, a second son, Arthur, and perhaps 
others; but of all this I heard naught until many 
years after, as I have already said. 

It may seem a weak and careless thing for a man 
thus to cast away his father’s lands as my ancestor 
did ; but what he gave up was a poor estate, embar- 
rassed with mortgages and lessened by fines, until 
the income was, I suspect, but small. Certain it is 
that the freedom to worship God as he pleased was 
more to him than wealth, and assuredly not to be 
set against a so meagre estate, where he must have 
lived among enmities, or must have diced, drunk, and 
hunted with the rest of his kinsmen and neighbours. 

I have a faint memory of my aunt, Gainor Wynne, 
as being fond of discussing the matter, and of how 
angry this used to make my father. She had a 
notion that my father knew more than he was will- 
ing to say, and that there had been something further 


14 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


agreed between the brothers, although what this was 
she knew not, nor ever did for many a day. She was 
given, however, to filling my young fancy with tales 
about the greatness of these Wynnes, and of how the 
old homestead, rebuilded in James I.’s reign, had 
been the nest of Wynnes past the memory of man. 
Be all this as it may, we had lost Wyncote for the 
love of a freer air, although all this did not much 
concern me in the days of which I now write. 

Under the mild and just rule of the proprietary, 
my grandfather Hugh prospered, and in turn his son 
John, my father, to a far greater extent. Their old 
home in Wales became to them, as time went on, less 
and less important. Their acres here in Merion and 
Bucks were more numerous and more fertile. I may 
add that the possession of many slaves in Maryland, 
and a few in Pennsylvania, gave them the feeling of 
authority and position, which the colonial was apt to 
lose in the presence of his English rulers, who, being 
in those days principally gentlemen of the army, 
were given to assuming airs of superiority. 

In a word, my grandfather, a man of excellent wits 
and of much importance, was of the council of Wil- 
liam Penn, and, as one of his chosen advisers, much 
engaged in his difficulties with the Lord Baltimore 
as to the boundaries of the lands held of the crown. 
Finally, when, as Penn says, “I could not prevail 
with my wife to stay, and still less with Tishe,” 
which was short for Lastitia, his daughter, an ob- 
stinate wench, it was to men like Logan and 
my grandfather that he gave his full confidence 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 


*5 


and delegated his authority; so that Hugh Wynne 
had become, long before his death, a person of so 
much greater condition than the small squires to 
whom he had given up his estate, that he was 
like Joseph in this new land. What with the indif- 
ference come of large means, and disgust for a 
country where he had been ill treated, he probably 
ceased to think of his forefathers* life in Wales as 
of a thing either desirable or in any way suited to 
his own creed. 

Soon the letters, which at first were frequent, that 
is, coming twice a year, when the London packet 
arrived or departed, became rare; and if, on the 
death of my great-uncle William, they ceased, or if 
any passed later between us and the next holder 
of Wyncote, I never knew. The Welsh squires had 
our homestead, and we our better portion of wealth 
and freedom in this new land. And so ended my 
knowledge of this matter for many a year. 

You will readily understand that the rude life 
of a fox-hunting squire or the position of a strict 
Quaker on a but moderate estate in Merionethshire 
would have had little to tempt my father. Yet one 
thing remained with him awhile as an unchanged 
inheritance, to which, so far as I remember, he only 
once alluded. Indeed, I should never have guessed 
that he gave the matter a thought but for that visit 
of Mr. John Penn, and the way it recurred to me in 
later days in connection with an incident concerning 
the picture and the blazoned arms. 

I think he cared less and less as years went by. Tn 


1 6 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 


earlier days he may still have liked to remember 
that he might have been Wynne of Wvncote j but 
this is a mere guess on my part. Pride spiritual is 
a master passion, and certain it is that the creed and 
ways of Fox and Penn became to him, as years cre- 
ated habits, of an importance far beyond the pride 
which values ancient blood or a stainless shield. 

The old house, which was built much in the same 
fashion as the great mansion of my Lord Dysart on 
the Thames near to Richmond, but smaller, was, after 
all, his family home. The picture and the arms were 
hid away in deference to opinions by which in gen- 
eral he more and more sternly abided. Once, when 
I was older, I went into his bedroom, and was sur- 
prised to find him standing before the hearth, his 
hands crossed behind his back, looking earnestly at 
the brightly coloured shield beneath the picture of 
Wyncote. I knew too well to disturb him in these 
silent moods, but hearing my steps, he suddenly 
called me to him. I obeyed with the dread his stern- 
ness always caused me. To my astonishment, his 
face was flushed and his eyes were moist. He laid 
his hand on my shoulder, and clutched it hard as he 
spoke. He did not turn, but, still looking up at the 
arms, said, in a voice which paused between the words 
and sounded strange : 

“I have been insulted to-day, Hugh, by the man 
Thomas Bradford. I thank God that the Spirit pre- 
vailed with me to answer him in Christian meekness. 
He came near to worse things than harsh words. 
Be warned, my son. It is a terrible set-back from 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 17 

right living to come of a hot-blooded breed like 
these Wynnes.” 

I looked up at him as he spoke. He was smiling. 
“But not all bad, Hugh, not all bad. Remember 
that it is something, in this nest of disloyal traders, 
to have come of gentle blood.” 

Then he left gazing on the arms and the old home 
of our people, and said severely, “ Hast thou gotten 
thy tasks to-day ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ It has not been so of late. I hope thou hast con- 
sidered before speaking. If I hear no better of thee 
soon thou wilt repent it. It is time thou shouldst 
take thy life more seriously. What I have said is 
for no ear but thine.” 

I went away with a vague feeling that I had suf- 
fered for Mr. Bradford, and on account of my father’s 
refusal to join in resistance to the Stamp Act; for 
this was in November, 1765, and I was then fully 
twelve years of age. 

My father’s confession, and all he had said follow- 
ing it, made upon me one of those lasting impres- 
sions which are rare in youth, but which may have a 
great influence on the life of a man. Now all the 
boys were against the Stamp Act, and I had at the 
moment a sudden fear at being opposed to my father. 
I had, too, a feeling of personal shame because this 
strong man, whom I dreaded on account of his sever- 
ity, should have been so overwhelmed by an insult. 
There was at this period, and later, much going on 
in my outer life to lessen the relentless influence of 


18 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


the creed of conduct which prevailed in our home for 
me, and for all of our house. I had even then begun 
to suspect at school that non-resistance did not add 
permanently to the comfort of life. I was sorry that 
my father had not resorted to stronger measures 
with Mr. Bradford, a gentleman whom, in after- 
years, I learned greatly to respect. 

More than anything else, this exceptional experi- 
ence as to my father left me with a great desire to 
know more of these Wynnes, and with a certain share 
of that pride of race, which, to my surprise, as I think 
it over now, was at that time in my father’s esteem 
a possession of value. I am bound to add that I also 
felt some self-importance at being intrusted with 
this secret, for such indeed it was. 

Before my grandfather left Wales he had married 
a distant cousin, Ellin Owen, and on her death, child 
less, he took to wife, many years later, her younger sis- 
ter, Gainor' f 1 for these Owens, our kinsmen, had also 
become Friends, and had followed my grandfather’s 
example in leaving their horn e in Merionethshire. To 
this second marriage, which occurred in 1713, were 
born my aunt, Gainor Wynne, and, two years later, 
my father, John Wynne. I have no remembrance 
of either grandparent Both lie in the ground at 
Merion Meeting-house, under nameless, unmarked 
graves, after the manner of Friends. I like it not. 

My father, being a stern and silent man, must 
needs be caught by his very opposite, and, accord- 

1 Thus early we shed the English prejudice against mar- 
riage with a deceased wife’s sister. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 19 


ing to this law of our nature, fell in love with Marie 
Beauvais, the orphan of a French gentleman who 
had become a Quaker, and was of that part of France 
called the Midi. Of this marriage I was the only 
surviving offspring, my sister Ellin dying when I 
was an infant. I was boi n in the city of Penn, on 
January 9, 1753, at 9 P. M. 


II 


HAVE but to close my eyes to see the 
house in which I lived in my youth. It 
stood in the city of Penn, back from the 
low bluff of Dock Creek, near to Walnut 
street. The garden stretched down to 
the water, and before the door were still left on either 
side two great hemlock-spruces, which must have 
been part of the noble woods under which the first 
settlers found shelter. Behind the house was a sepa- 
rate building, long and low, in which all the cook- 
ing was done, and upstairs were the rooms where 
the slaves dwelt apart. 

The great garden stretched westward as far as 
Third street, and was full of fine fruit-trees, and in 
the autumn of melons, first brought hither in one of 
my father’s ships. Herbs and simples were not want- 
ing, nor berries, for all good housewives in those days 
were expected to be able to treat colds and the lesser 
maladies with simples, as they were called, and to pro- 
vide abundantly jams and conserves of divers kinds. 

There were many flowers too, and my mother loved 
to make a home here for the wildings she found in 
the governor’s woods. I have heard her regret that 
the most delicious of all the growths of spring, the 
20 



Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


21 


ground-sweet, which I think they now call arbutus, 
would not prosper out of its forest shelter. 

The house was of black and red brick, and double j 
that is, with two windows on each side of a white 
Doric doorway, having something portly about it. I 
use the word as Dr. Johnson defines it: a house of 
port, with a look of sufficiency, and, too, of ready 
hospitality, which was due, I think, to the upper 
half of the door being open a good part of the year. 
I recall also the bull’s-eye of thick glass in the upper 
half-door, and below it a great brass knocker. In the 
white shutters were cut crescentic openings, which 
looked at night like half-shut eyes when there were 
lights within the rooms. In the hall were hung on 
pegs leathern buckets. They were painted green, 
and bore, in yellow letters, u Fire ” and “ J. W.” 

The day I went to school for the first time is very 
clear in my memory. I can see myself, a stout little 
fellow about eight years old, clad in gray homespun, 
with breeches, low shoes, and a low, flat beaver hat. 
I can hear my mother say, u Here are two big apples 
for thy master,” it being the custom so to propitiate 
pedagogues. Often afterward I took eggs in a little 
basket, or flowers, and others did the like. 

u Now run ! run ! ” she cried, u and be a good boy ; 
run, or thou wilt be late.” And she clapped her 
hands as I sped away, now and then looking back 
over my shoulder. 

I remember as* well my return home to this solid 
house, this first day of my going to school. One is 
apt to associate events with persons, and my mother 


22 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


stood leaning on the half-door as I came running 
back. She was some little reassured to see me smil- 
ing, for, to tell the truth, I had been mightily scared 
at my new venture. 

This sweet and most tender-hearted lady wore, as 
you may like to know, a gray gown, and a blue chintz 
apron fastened over the shoulders with wide bands. 
On her head was a very broad-brimmed white beaver 
hat, low in the crown, and tied by silk cords under 
her chin. She had a great quantity of brown hair, 
among which was one wide strand of gray. This 
she had from youth, I have been told. It was all 
very silken, and so curly that it was ever in rebellion 
against the custom of Friends, which would have had 
it flat on the temples. Indeed, I never saw it so, for, 
whether at the back or at the front, it was wont to 
escape in large curls. Nor do I think she disliked 
this worldly wilfulness, for which nature had pro- 
vided an unanswerable excuse. She had serious blue 
eyes, very large and wide open, so that the clear white 
was seen all around the blue, and with a constant look 
as if of gentle surprise. In middle life she was 
still pliant and well rounded, with a certain compli- 
ment of fresh prettiness in whatever gesture she 
addressed to friend or guest. Some said it was a 
French way, and indeed she made more use of her 
hands in speech than was common among people of 
British race. 

Her goodness seems to me to Have been instinc- 
tive, and to have needed neither thought nor effort. 
Her faults, as I think of her, were mostly such as 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 23 


arise from excess of loving and of noble moods. 
She would be lavish where she had better have been 
merely generous, or rash where some would have 
lacked even the commoner qualities of courage. In- 
deed, as to this, she feared no one— neither my grave 
father nor the grimmest of inquisitive committees of 
Friends. 

As I came she set those large, childlike eyes on me, 
and opening the lower half -door, cried out : 

“ I could scarce wait for thee ! I wish I could have 
gone with thee, Hugh ; and was it dreadful ? Come, 
let us see thy little book. And did they praise thy 
reading ? Didst thou tell them I taught thee ? There 
are girls, I hear,” and so on— a way she had of ask- 
ing many questions without waiting for a reply. 

As we chatted we passed through the hall, where 
tall mahogany chairs stood dark against the white- 
washed walls, such as were in all the rooms. Joyous 
at escape from school, and its confinement of three 
long, weary hours, from eight to eleven, I dropped 
my mother’s hand, and, running a little, slid down 
the long entry over the thinly sanded floor, and then 
slipping, came down with a rueful countenance, as 
nature, foreseeing results, meant that a boy should 
descend when his legs fail him. My mother sat down 
on a settle, and spread out both palms toward me, 
laughing, and crying out : 

“ So near are joy and grief, my friends, in this 
world of sorrow.” 

This was said so exactly with the voice and man- 
ner of a famous preacher of our Meeting that even 


24 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


I, a lad then of only eight years, recognised the 
imitation. Indeed, she was wonderful at this trick 
of mimicry, a thing most odious to Friends. As 
I smiled, hearing her, I was aware of my father 
in the open doorway of the sitting-room, tall, strong, 
with much iron-gray hair. Within I saw several 
Friends, large rosy men in drab, with horn buttons 
and straight collars, their stout legs clad in dark silk 
hose, -without the paste or silver buckles then in use. 
All wore broad-brimmed, low beavers, and their 
gold-headed canes rested between their knees. 

My father said to me, in his sharp way, “ Take thy 
noise out into the orchard. The child disturbs us, 
wife. Thou shouldst know better. A committee of 
overseers is with me.” He disliked the name Marie, 
and was never heard to use it, nor even its English 
equivalent. 

Upon this the dear lady murmured, “ Let us fly, 
Hugh,” and she ran on tiptoe along the hall with 
me, while my father closed the door. “ Come,” she 
added, “and see the floor. I am proud of it. We 
have friends to eat dinner with us at two.” 

The great room where we took our meals is still 
clear in my mind. The floor was two inches deep in 
white sand, in which were carefully traced zigzag 
lines, with odd patterns in the corners. A bare 
table of well-rubbed mahogany stood in the middle, 
with a thin board or two laid on the sand, that the 
table might be set without disturbing the patterns. 
In the corners were glass-covered buffets, full of sil- 
ver and Delft ware ; and a punch-bowl of Chelsea was 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 25 

on the broad window-ledge, with a silver-mounted 
cocoanut ladle. 

“ The floor is pretty,” she said, regarding it with 
pride, “ and I would make flowers too, but that thy 
father thinks it vain, and Friend Pemberton would 
set his bridge spectacles on his nose, and look at me, 
until I said naughty words, oh, very ! Come out ; I 
will find thee some ripe damsons, and save thee cake 
for thy supper, if Friend Warder does not eat it all. 
He is a little man, and eats much. A solicitous man,” 
and she became of a sudden the person she had in 
mind, looking somehow feeble and cautious and un- 
easy, with arms at length, and the palms turned 
forward, so that I knew it for Joseph Warder, a fre- 
quent caller, of whom more hereafter. 

“What is so— solicitous?” I said. 

“ Oh, too fearful concerning what may be thought 
of him. Vanity, vanity ! Come, let us run down the 
garden. Canst thou catch me, Hugh ? ” And with 
this she fled away, under the back stoop and through 
the trees, light and active, her curls tumbling out, 
while I hurried after her, mindful of damsons, and 
wondering how much cake Friend Warder would 
leave for my comfort at evening. 

Dear, ever dear lady, seen through the mist of 
years ! None was like you, and none as dear, save 
one who had as brave a soul, but far other ways and 
charms. 

And thus began my life at school, to which I went 
twice a day, my father not approving of the plan of 
three sessions a day, which was common, nor, for 


z6 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


some reason, I know not what, of schools kept by 
Friends. So it was that I set out before eight, and 
went again from two to four. My master, David 
Dove, kept his school in Vidall’s Alley, nigh to 
Chestnut, above Second. There were many boys and 
girls, and of the former John Warder, and Gray don, 
who wrote certain memoirs long after. His mother, 
a widow, kept boarders in the great Slate-roof House 
near by ; for in those days this was a common re- 
source of decayed gentlewomen, and by no means 
affected their social position. Here came many 
officers to stay, and their red coats used to please my 
eyes as I went by the porch, where at evening I saw 
them smoking long pipes, and saying not very nice 
things of the local gentry, or of the women as they 
passed by, and calling “ Mohair ! ” after the gentle- 
men, a manner of army word of contempt for citizens. 
I liked well enough the freedom I now enjoyed, and 
found it to my fancy to wander a little on my way to 
school, although usually I followed the creek, and, 
where Second street crossed it, lingered on the bridge 
to watch the barges or galleys come up at full of tide, 
to the back of the warehouses on the northeast bank. 

I have observed that teachers are often eccentric, 
and surely David Dove was no exception, nor do I 
now know why so odd a person was chosen by many 
for the care of youth. I fancy my mother had to do 
with the choice in my case, and was influenced by 
the fact that Dove rarely used the birch, but had a 
queer fancy for setting culprits on a stool, with the 
birch switch stuck in the back of the jacket, so as to 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 27 


stand up behind the head. I hated this, and would 
rather have been birched secundum artem than to 
have seen the girls giggling at me. I changed my 
opinion later. 

Thus my uneventful life ran on, while I learned to 
write, and acquired, with other simple knowledge, 
enough of Latin and Greek to fit me for entrance at 
the academy, which Dr. Franklin had founded in 1750, 
in the hall on Fourth street, built for Whitefield’s 
preaching. 

At this time I fell much into the company of John 
Warder, a lad of my own age, and a son of that 
J oseph who liked cake, and was, as my mother said, 
solicitous. Most of the games of boys were not 
esteemed fitting by Friends, and hence we were 
somewhat limited in our resources ; but to fish in the 
creek we were free ; also to haunt the ships and hear 
sea yarns, and to skate in winter, were not forbidden. 
Jack Warder I took to because he was full of stories, 
and would imagine what things might chance to my 
father’s ships in the West Indies ; but why, in those 
early days, he liked me, I do not know. 

Our school life with Dove ended after four years 
in an odd fashion. I was then about twelve, and 
had become a vigorous, daring boy, with, as it now 
seems to me, something of the fortunate gaiety of 
my mother. Other lads thought it singular that in 
peril I became strangely vivacious ; but underneath 
I had a share of the relentless firmness of my father, 
and of his vast dislike of failure, and of his love of 
truth. I have often thought that the father in me 


28 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


saved me from the consequences of so much of my 
mother’s gentler nature as might have done me harm 
in the rude conflicts of life. 

David Dove, among other odd ways, devised a plan 
for punishing the unpunctual which had consider- 
able success. One day, when I had far overstayed 
the hour of eight, by reason of having climbed into 
Friend Pemberton’s gardens, where I was tempted by 
many green apples, I was met by four older boys. One 
had a lantern, which, with much laughter, he tied 
about my neck, and one, marching before, rang a bell. 
I had seen this queer punishment fall on others, and 
certainly the amusement shown by people in the 
streets would not have hurt me compared with the 
advantage of pockets full of apples, had I not of a 
sudden seen my father, who usually breakfasted at 
six, and was at his warehouse by seven. He looked 
at me composedly, but went past us saying nothing. 

On my return about eleven, he unluckily met me 
in the garden, for I had gone the back way in order 
to hide my apples. I had an unpleasant half-hour,, 
despite my mother’s tears, and was sent at once to 
confess to Friend James Pemberton. The good 
man said I was a naughty boy, but must come later 
when the apples were red ripe, and I should take all 
I wanted, and I might fetch with me another boy, 
or even two. I never forgot this, and did him some 
good turns in after-years, and right gladly too. 

In my own mind I associated David Dove with 
this painful interview with my father. I disliked 
him the more because, when the procession entered 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 29 


the school, a little girl for whom Warder and I had 
a hoy friendship, in place of laughing, as did the rest, 
for some reason began to cry. This angered the 
master, who had the lack of self-control often seen in 
eccentric people. He asked why she cried, and on 
her sobbing out that it was because she was sorry 
for me, he bade her take off her stays. These being 
stiff, and worn outside the gown, would have made 
the punishment of the birch on the shoulders of tri- 
fling moment. 

As it was usual to whip girls at school, the little 
maid said nothing, but did as she was bid, taking a 
sharp birching without a cry. Meanwhile I sat with 
my head in my hands, and my fingers in my ears lest 
I should hear her weeping. After school that even- 
ing, when all but Warder and I nad wandered home, 
I wrote on the outside wall of the school-house .with 
chalk, “ David Dove Is A Cruel Beast,” and went 
away somewhat better contented. 

Now, with all his seeming dislike to use the rod, 
David had turns of severity, and then he was far 
more brutal than any man I have ever known. 
Therefore it did not surprise us next morning that 
the earlier scholars were looking with wonder and 
alarm at the sentence on the wall, when Dove, ap- 
pearing behind us, ordered us to enter at once. 

Going to his desk, he put on his spectacles, which 
then were worn astride of the nose. In a minute he 
set on below them a second pair, and this we knew to 
be a signal of coming violence. Then he stood up, 
and asked who had written the opprobrious epithet 


30 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


on the wall. As no one replied, he asked several in 
turn, but luckily chose the girls, thinking, perhaps, 
that they would weakly betray the sinner. Soon he 
lost patience, and cried out he would give a king’s 
pound to know. 

When he had said this over and over, I began to 
reflect that, if he had any real idea of doing as he 
promised, a pound was a great sum, and to consider 
what might be done with it in the way of marbles of 
Amsterdam, tops, and of certain much-desired books, 
for now this latter temptation was upon me, as it 
has been ever since. As I sat, and Dove thundered, 
I remembered how, when one Stacy, with an oath, 
assured my father that his word was as good as his 
bond, my parent said dryly that this equality left him 
free to choose, and he would prefer his bond. I saw 
no way to what was for me the mysterious security 
of a bond, but 1 did conceive of some need to stiffen 
the promise Dove had made before I faced the 
penalty. 

Upon this I held up a hand, and the master cried, 
u What is it?” 

I said, u Master, if a boy should tell thee wouldst 
thou surely give a pound ? ” 

At this a lad called " Shame ! ” thinking I was a 
telltale. 

When Dove called silence and renewed his pledge, 
I, overbold, said, “ Master, I did it, and now wilt 
thou please to give me a pound— a king’s pound?” 

u I will give thee a pounding ! ” he roared ; and 
upon this came down from his raised form, and gave 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


3 1 


me a beating so terrible and cruel that at last the 
girls cried aloud, and he let me drop on the floor, 
sore and angry. I lay still awhile, and then went to 
my seat. As I bent over my desk, it was rather the 
sense that I had been wronged, than the pain of the 
blows, which troubled me. 

After school, refusing speech to any, I walked 
home, and ministered to my poor little bruised body 
as I best could. Now this being a Saturday, and 
therefore a half-holiday, I ate at two with my father 
and mother. 

Presently my father, detecting my uneasy move- 
ments, said, “ Hast thou been birched to-day, and for 
what badness 1 ” 

Upon this my mother said softly, “ What is it, my 
son ? Have no fear.” And this gentleness being too 
much for me, I fell to tears, and blurted out all my 
little tragedy. 

As I ended, my father rose, very angry, and cried 
out, “ Come this way ! ” But my mother caught me, 
saying, “No! no! Look, John! see his poor neck 
and his wrist ! What a brute ! I tell thee, thou 
shalt not ! it were a sin. Leave him to me,” and she 
thrust me behind her as if for safety. 

To my surprise, he said, “ As thou wilt,” and my 
mother hurried me away. We had a grave, sweet 
talk, and there it ended for a time. I learned that, 
after all, the woman’s was the stronger will. I was 
put to bed and declared to have a fever, and given 
sulphur and treacle, and kept out of the paternal 
paths for a mournful day of enforced rest. 


32 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


On the Monday following I went to school as 
usual, but not without fear of Dove. When we were 
all busy, about ten o’clock, I was amazed to hear my 
father’s voice. He stood before the desk, and ad- 
dressed Master Dove in a loud voice, meaning, I 
suppose, to be heard by all of us. 

“ David Dove,” he said, “ my son hath been guilty 
of disrespect to thee, and to thy office. I do not say 
he has lied, for it is my belief that thou art truly an 
unjust and cruel beast. As for his sin, he has suf- 
fered enough [I felt glad of this final opinion] ; but 
a bargain was made. He, on his part, for a consid- 
eration of one pound sterling, was to tell thee who 
wrote certain words. He has paid thee and thou 
hast taken interest out of his skin. Indeed, Friend 
Shylock, I think he weighs less by a pound. Thou 
wilt give him his pound, Master David.” 

Upon this a little maid near by smiled at me, 
and Warder punched me in the ribs. Master Dove 
was silent a moment, and then answered that there 
was no law to make him pay, and that he had spoken 
lightly, as one might say, “ I would give this or that 
to know.” But my father replied at once : 

“ The boy trusted thee, and was as good as his 
word. I advise thee to pay. As thou art Master to 
punish boys, so will I, David, use thy birch on thee 
at need, and trust to the great Master to reckon with 
me if I am wrong.” 

All this he said so fiercely that I trembled with 
joy, and hoped that Dove wmild deny him • but, in 
place of this, he muttered something about Meeting 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 33 

and Friends, and meanwhile searched his pockets 
and brought ont a guinea. This my father dropped 
into his breeches pocket, saying, “ The shilling will 
be for interest” (a guinea being a shilling over a 
king’s pound). After this, turning to me, he said, 
“ Come with me, Hugh,” and went out of the school- 
house, I following after, very well pleased, and think- 
ing of my guinea. I dared not ask for it, and I 
think be forgot it. He went along homeward, with 
his head bent and his hands behind his back. In 
common, he walked with his head up and his chin set 
forward, as though he did a little look down on the 
world of other men 5 and this in truth he did, being 
at least six feet three inches in his stocking-feet, and 
with no lack of proportion in waist or chest. 

Next day I asked my mother of my guinea, but she 
laughed gaily, and threw up her hands, and cried, u A 
bad debt ! a bad debt, Hugh ! Dost thou want more 
interest f My father used to say they had a proverb 
in the Midi, ‘If the devil owe thee money it were 
best to lose it.’ Le (liable! Oh, what am I saying? 
Mon fils , forget thy debt. What did thy father say ? ” 
And I told it again to her amusement ; but she said 
at last, very seriously : 

“ It has disturbed thy father as never before did 
anything since he would not join with Friend Brad- 
ford against the Stamp Act. I would I had seen him 
then, or this time. I like sometimes to see a strong 
man in just anger. Oh, mon Dieu ! what did I 
say ! I am but half a Quaker, I fear.” My mother 
never would turn away from the creed of her peo* 
3 


34 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


pie, but she did not altogether fancy the ways of 
Friends. 

“Eh, mon fils , sometimes I say naughty words. 
Give me a sweet little pat on the cheek for my bad- 
ness, and always come to me with all thy troubles.” 
Then I kissed her, and we went out to play hide-and- 
find in the orchard. 

My father’s grim, sarcastic humour left him as 
years went on, and he became as entirely serious 
as I ever knew a man to be. I think on this occa- 
sion his after-annoyance, which endured for days, 
was more because of having threatened Dove than 
for any other cause. He no doubt regarded me as 
the maker of the mischief which had tempted him 
for a moment to forget himself, and for many a day 
his unjust severity proved that he did not readily 
forgive. But so it was always. My mother never 
failed to understand me, which my father seemed 
rarely able to do. If I did ill he used the strap with 
little mercy, but neither in these early years, nor in 
those which followed, did he ever give me a word of 
praise. Many years afterward I found a guinea in a 
folded paper, laid away in my father’s desk. On the 
outer cover he had written, “ This belongs to Hugh. 
He were better without it.” 

My mother scarce ever let slip her little French ex- 
pletives or phrases in my father’s hearing. He hated 
all French things, and declared the language did not 
ring true— that it was a slippery tongue, in which it 
was easy to lie. A proud, strong man he was in 
those days, of fixed beliefs, and of unchanging loy- 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 35 


alty to the king. In his own house he was feared by 
his son, his clerks, and his servants ; but not by my 
mother, who charmed him, as she did all other men, 
and had in most things her desire. 

Outside of his own walls few men cared to oppose 
him. He was rich, and coldly despotic ; a man exact 
and just in business, but well able, and as willing, to 
help with a free hand whatever cause was of interest 
to Friends. My Aunt Gainor, a little his senior, was 
one of the few over whom he had no manner of con- 
trol. She went her own way, and it was by no means 
his way, as I shall make more clear by and by. 

Two days later I was taken to the academy, or the 
college, as some called it, which is now the university. 
My father wrote my name, as you may see it in the 
catalogue, and his own signature, with the date of 6th 
month 4th, 1765. Beneath it is the entry of John War- 
der and his father, Joseph; for Jack had also been 
removed from Dove’s dominion because of what my 
father said to J oseph, a man always pliable, and ad- 
vised to do what larger men thought good. Thus it 
came about that my friend J ack and I were by good 
fortune kept in constant relation. Our schoolmate, 
the small maid so slight of limb, so dark and 
tearful, was soon sent away to live with an aunt 
in Bristol, on the Delaware, having become an 
orphan by the death of her mother. Darthea Pen- 
iston passed out of my life for many years, having 
been, through the accident of her tenderness, the 
means for me of a complete and fortunate change. 


in 



HE academy was, and still is, a plain 
brick building, set back from Fourth 
street, and having a large gravelled space 
in front and also at the back. The main 
school-room occupied its whole westward 
length, and upstairs was a vast room, with bare joists 
above, in which, by virtue of the deed of gift, any 
Christian sect was free to worship if temporarily de- 
prived of a home. Here the great Whitefield preached, 
and here generations of boys were taught. Behind 
the western playground was the graveyard of Christ 
Church. He was thought a brave lad who, after 
school at dusk in winter, dared to climb over and 
search around the tombs of the silent dead for a lost 
ball or what not. 

I was mightily afraid of the academy. The birch 
was used often and with severity, and, as I soon 
found, there was war between the boys and the 
town fellows who lived to north and east. I was 
also to discover other annoyances quite as little to 
the taste of Friends, such as stone fights or snowball 
skirmishes. Did time permit, I should like well to 
linger long over this school life. The college, as it 

3 6 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 37 

was officially called, had a great reputation, and its 
early catalogues are rich with names of those who 
made an empire. This task I leave to other pens, 
and hasten to tell my own personal story. 

In my friend Jack Warder’s journal there is a 
kind page or two as to what manner of lad I was in 
his remembrance of me in after-years. I like to 
think it was a true picture. 

“When Hugh Wynne and I went to school at 
the academy on Fourth street, south of Arch, I used 
to envy him his strength. At twelve he was as tall 
as are most lads at sixteen, but possessed of such 
activity and muscular power as are rarely seen, bid- 
ding fair to attain, as he did later, the height and 
massive build of his father. He was a great lover 
of risk, and not, as I have always been, fearful. 
When we took apples, after the fashion of all Adam’s 
young descendants, he was as like as not to give 
them away. I think he went with us on these, and 
some wilder errands, chiefly because of his fondness 
for danger, a thing I could never comprehend. He 
still has his mother’s great eyes of blue, and a fair, 
clear skin. God bless him! Had I never known 
him I might perhaps have been, as to one thing, a 
happier man, but I had been less deserving of such 
good fortune as has come to me in life. For this is 
one of the uses of friends: that we consider how 
such and such a thing we are moved to do might ap- 
pear to them. And this for one of my kind, who 
have had — nay, who have — many weaknesses, has 
been why Hugh Wynne counts for so much to me. 


38 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“We, with two other smaller boys, were, at that 
time, the only sons of Friends at the academy, and 
were, thanks to the brute Dove, better grounded in 
the humanities than were some, although we were 
late in entering.” 

I leave this and other extracts as they were writ. 
A more upright gentleman than John Warder I 
know not, nor did ever know. What he meant by 
his weaknesses I cannot tell, and as to the meaning 
of one phrase, which he does not here explain, these 
pages shall perhaps discover. 

Not long after our entrance at the academy, my 
father charged me one morning with a note to my 
aunt, Gainor Wynne, which I was to deliver when 
the morning session was over. As this would make 
me late, in case her absence delayed a reply, I was 
to remain and eat my midday meal. My father was 
loath always to call upon his sister. She had early 
returned to the creed of her ancestors, and sat on 
Sundays in a great square pew at Christ Church, to 
listen to the Rev. Robert Jennings. Hither, in Sep- 
tember of 1763, my aunt took me, to my father’s in- 
dignation, to hear the great Mr. Whitefield preach. 

Neither Aunt Gainor’s creed, dress, house, nor 
society pleased her brother. She had early made 
clear, in her decisive way, that I was to be her heir, 
and she was, I may add, a woman of large estate. I 
was allowed to visit her as I pleased. Indeed, I did 
so often. I liked no one better, always excepting my 
mother. Why, with my father’s knowledge of her 
views, I was thus left free I cannot say. He was 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 39 

the last of men to sacrifice his beliefs to motives 
of gain. 

When I knocked at the door of her house on Arch 
street, opposite the Friends’ Meeting-house, a black 
boy, dressed as a page, let me in. He was clad in 
gray armozine, a sort of corded stuff, with red but- 
tons, and he wore a red turban. As my aunt was 
gone to drive, on a visit to that Madam Penn who 
was once Miss Allen, I was in no hurry, and was 
glad to look about me. The parlour, a great room 
with three windows on the street, afforded a strange 
contrast to my sober home. There were Smyrna 
rugs on a polished floor, a thing almost unheard of. 
Indeed, people came to see them. The furniture was 
all of red walnut, and carved in shells and flower re- 
liefs. There were so many tables, little and larger, 
with claw-feet or spindle-legs, that one had to be 
careful not to overturn their loads of Chinese drag- 
ons, ivory carvings, grotesque Delft beasts, and fans, 
French or Spanish or of the Orient. There was also 
a spinet, and a corner closet of books, of which 
every packet brought her a variety. Upstairs was a 
fair room full of volumes, big and little, as I found 
to my joy rather later, and these were of all kinds : 
some good, and some of them queer, or naughty. 
Over the wide, white fireplace was a portrait of her- 
self by the elder Peale, but I prefer the one now in 
my library. This latter hung, at the time I speak of, 
between the windows. It was significant of my aunt’s 
idea of her own importance that she should have 
wished to possess two portraits of herself. The lat- 


40 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


ter was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds when she 
was in England in 1750, and represents her as a fine, 
large woman with features which were too big for 
loveliness in youth, but in after-years went well with 
her abundant gray hair and unusual stature ; for, like 
the rest of us, she was tall, of vigorous and whole- 
some build and colour, with large, well-shaped hands, 
and the strength of a man— I might add, too, with 
the independence of a man. She went her own 
way, conducted the business of her estate, which 
was ample, with skill and ability, and asked advice 
from no one. Like my father, she had a liking to 
control those about her, was restlessly busy, and 
was never so pleased as when engaged in arranging 
other people’s lives, or meddling with the making 
of matches. 

To this ample and luxurious house came the bet- 
ter class of British officers, and ombre and quadrille 
were often, I fear, played late into the long nights of 
winter Single women, after a certain or uncertain 
age, were given a brevet title of “ Mistress.” Mis- 
tress Gainor Wynne lost or won with the coolness of 
an old gambler, and this habit, perhaps more than 
aught beside, troubled my father. Sincere and con- 
sistent in his views, I can hardly think that my 
father was, after all, unable to resist the worldly ad- 
vantages which my aunt declared should be mine. 
It was, in fact, difficult to keep me out of the obvi- 
ous risks this house and company provided for a 
young person like myself. He must have trusted to 
the influence of my home to keep me in the ways of 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 41 


Friends. It is also to be remembered, as regards my 
father's motives, that my Aunt Gainor was my only 
relative, since of the Owens none were left. 

My mother was a prime favourite with this master- 
ful lady. She loved nothing better than to give her 
fine silk petticoats or a pearl-coloured satin gown ; and 
if this should nowadays amaze Friends, let them but 
look in the “ Observer,” and see what manner of fin- 
ery was advertised in 1778 as stole from our friend, 
Sarah Fisher, sometime Sarah Logan, a much re- 
spected member of Meeting. In this, as in all else, 
my mother had her way, and, like some of the 
upper class of Quakers, wore at times such raiment 
as fifty years later would have surely brought about 
a visit from a committee of overseers. 

Waiting for Aunt Gainor, I fell upon an open 
parcel of books just come by the late spring packet. 
Among these turned up a new and fine edition of 
“ Captain Gulliver's Travels,” by Mr. Dean Swift. I 
lit first, among these famous adventures, on an ex- 
traordinary passage, so wonderful, indeed, and so 
amusing, that I heard not the entrance of my father, 
who at the door had met my aunt, and with her some 
fine ladies of the governor's set. There were Mrs. 
Ferguson, too well known in the politics of later 
years, but now only a beautiful and gay woman, 
Madam Allen, and Madam Chew, the wife of the 
Attorney-General. 

They were eagerly discussing, and laughingly in- 
quiring of my father, what colour of masks for the 
street was to be preferred. He was in no wise em- 


42 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


barrassed by these fine dames, and never, to my 
thinking, was seen to better advantage than among 
what he called “ world’s people.” He seemed to me 
more really at home than among Friends, and as he 
towered, tall, and gravely courteous in manner, I 
thought him a grand gentleman. 

As I looked up, the young Miss Chew, who after- 
ward married Colonel Eager Howard, was saying 
saucily, “ Does not Madam Wynne wear a mask for 
her skin ? It is worth keeping, Mr. Wynne.” 

“ Let me recommend to you a vizard with silver 
buttons to hold in the mouth, or, better, a riding- 
mask,^ cried Aunt G-ainor, pleased at this gentle 
badgering, “ like this, John. See, a flat silver plate 
to hold between the teeth. It is the last thing.” 

“ White silk would suit her best,” cried Mrs. Fergu- 
son, “or green, with a chin-curtain— a loo-mask. 
Which would you have, sir?” 

“Indeed,” he said quietly, “her skin is good enough. 
I know no way to better it.” 

Then they all laughed, pelting the big man with 
many questions, until he could not help but laugh, 
as he declared he was overwhelmed, and would come 
on his business another day. But on this the women 
would not stay, and took themselves and their high 
bonnets and many petticoats out of the room, each 
dropping a curtsey at the door, and he bowing low, 
like Mr. John Penn, as never before I had seen 
him do. 

No sooner were they gone than he desired me to 
give him the note he had written to his sister, since 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 43 

now it was not needed, and then he inquired what 
hook I was reading. Aunt Gainor glanced at it, and 
replied for me, “ A book of travels, John, very im- 
proving too. Take it home, Hugh, and read it. If 
you find in it no improprieties, it may be recom- 
mended to your father.” She loved nothing better 
than to tease him. 

“ 1 see not what harm there could be in travels,” 
he returned. “ Thou hast my leave. Gainor, what 
is this I hear ? Thou wouldst have had me sell thee 
for a venture threescore hogsheads of tobacco from 
Annapolis. I like not to trade with my sister, nor 
that she should trade at all : and now, when I have 
let them go to another, I hear that it is thou who 
art the real buyer. I came hither to warn thee that 
other cargoes are to arrive. Thou wilt lose.” 

Aunt Gainor said nothing for a moment, but let 
loose the linen safeguard petticoat she wore against 
mud or dust when riding, and appeared in a rich bro- 
cade of gray silken stuff, and a striped under-gown. 
When she had put off her loose camlet over- jacket, 
she said, “ Will you have a glass of Madeira, or shall 
it be Hollands, John? Ring the bell, Hugh.” 

“ Hollands,” said my father. 

11 What will you give me for your tobacco to-day, 
John?” 

“ Why dost thou trifle ? ” he returned. 

“ I sold it again, John. I am the better by an hun- 
dred pounds. Two tobacco-ships are wrecked on 
Hinlopen. An express is come. Have you not 
heard ? ” 


44 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

“ Farewell,” he said, rising. He made no comment 
on her news. I had an idea that he would not have 
been unhappy had she lost on her ven ture. 

Joseph Warder was her agent then and afterward. 
She rarely lost on her purchases. Although gener- 
ous, and even lavish, she dearly loved a good bar- 
gain, and, I believe, liked the game far more than she 
cared for success in the playing of it. 

“Come, Hugh,” she said, “let us eat and drink. 
Take the book home, and put it away for your own 
reading. Here is sixpence out of my gains. I hope 
you will never need to trade, and, indeed, why should 
you, whether I live or die? How would the king’s 
service suit you, and a pair of colours 1 ” 

I said I should like it. 

“ There is a pretty tale, Hugh, of the French gen- 
tlemen, who, being poor, have to make money in com- 
merce. They leave their swords with a magistrate, 
and when they are become rich enough take them 
back again. There is some pleasing ceremony, but 
I forget. The Wynnes have been long enough in 
drab and trade. It is time we took back our swords, 
and quitted bow-thouing and bow-theeing.” 

I said I did not understand. 

“Oh, you will,” said Aunt Gainor, giving me a 
great apple-dumpling. “ Take some molasses. Oh, 
as much as you please. I shall look away, as I do 
when the gentlemen take their rum.” 

You may be sure I obeyed her. As to much that 
she said, I was shocked} but I never could resist a 
laugh, and so we made merry like children, as was 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 45 


usual, for, as she used to say, “To learn when to 
laugh and when not to laugh is an education.” 

When my meal was over, and my stomach and my 
pockets all full, Aunt Gainor bade me sit on her 
knees, and began to tell me about what fine gentle- 
men were the Wynnes, and how foolish my grand- 
father had been to turn Quaker and give up fox-hunt- 
ing and the old place. I was told, too, how much she 
had lost to Mr. Penn last night, and more that was 
neither well for me to hear nor wise for her to tell ; 
but as to this she cared little, and she sent me away 
then, as far too many times afterward, full of my own 
importance, and of desire to escape some day from 
the threatened life of the ledger and the day-book. 

At last she said, “ You are getting too heavy, Hugh. 
Handsome Mrs. Ferguson says you are too big to be 
kissed, and not old enough to kiss,” and so she bade 
me go forth to the afternoon session of the academy. 

After two weeks at the academy I got my first 
lesson in the futility of non-resistance, so that all 
the lessons of my life in favour of this doctrine were, 
of a sudden, rendered vain. We were going home in 
the afternoon, gay and happy, Jack Warder to take 
supper with me, and to use a boat my aunt had 
given me. 

Near to High street was a vacant lot full of bushes 
and briers. Here the elder lads paused, and one 
said, ‘ ‘ Wynne, you are to fight. ’ ’ 

I replied, “Why should I fight? I will not.” 

“But it is to be your standing in the school, 
and Tom Alloway will fight you.” 


46 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

‘ ‘ This was a famous occasion in our lives, ’ ’ writes 
my friend Jack ; ‘ ‘ for, consider : I, who was a girl for 
timidity, was sure to have my turn next, and here 
were we two little fellows, who had heard efvery First- 
day, and ever and ever at home, that all things were 
to be suffered of all men (and of boys too, I presume) . 
I was troubled for Hugh, but I noticed that while he 
said he would not fight he was buttoning up his jacket 
and turning back the cuff of one sleeve. Also he 
smiled as he said, ‘No, I cannot;’ and many times 
since I have seen him merry in danger. 

“For, of a truth, never later did he or I feel the 
sense of a great peril as we did that day, with the 
bigger boys hustling us, and Alloway crying, ‘ Cow- 
ard ! ’ I looked about for some man who would help 
us, but there was no one ; only a cow hobbled near 
by. She looked up, and then went on chewing her 
cud. I, standing behind Hugh, said, ‘Run! run!’ 

“The counsel seemed good to me who gave it. 
As I think on it now, I was in great perplexity of 
soul, and had a horrible fear as to bodily hurt. I 
turned, followed by Hugh, and ran fleetly across the 
hard ground and through the bushes. About mid- 
way I looked back. Two lads were near upon us, 
when I saw Hugh drop upon his hands and knees. 
Both fellows rolled over him, and he called out, as 
they fell to beating him, ‘Run, Jack!’ 

‘ ‘ But I was no longer so minded. I kicked one boy 
and struck another, and even now recall how a strange 
joy captured me when I struck the first blow.” 

There was a fine scrimmage, for no quarter was 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 47 

asked or given, and I saw my poor Jacks girl face 
bloody. This was the last I remember clearly, for the 
lust of battle was on me, and I can recall no more of 
what chanced for a little, than I could in later years 
of the wild melley on the main street of Germantown, 
or of the struggle in the redoubt at Yorktown. 

Presently we were cast to right and left by a strong 
hand, and, looking up, as I stood fierce and panting, 
I saw Friend Rupert Forest, and was overwhelmed 
with fear ; for often on First-day I had heard him 
preach solemnly, and always it was as to turning the 
other cheek, and on the wickedness of profane lan- 
guage. Just now he seemed pleased rather than 
angered, and said, smiling: 

“ This is a big war, boys. What is it about ? ” 

I said, ‘ ‘ I must fight for my standing, and I will 
not. ’ ’ 

“I think thou wert scarcely of that mind just 
now. There will be bad blood until it is over.” 

To this I replied, “It is Alloway I am to fight.” 

To my surprise, he went on to say, ‘ ‘ Then take off 
thy jacket and stand up, and no kicking.” 

I asked nothing better, and began to laugh. At 
this my foe, who was bigger and older than I, 
cried out that I would laugh on the other side of 
my mouth — a queer boy phrase of which I could 
never discover the meaning. 

“And now, fair play,” said Friend Forest. 
“Keep cool, Hugh, and watch his eyes.” 

I felt glad that he was on my side, and we fell to 
with no more words. I was no match for the prac- 


48 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


tised fists of my antagonist ; but I was the stronger, 
and I kept my wits better than might have been ex- 
pected. At last I got his head under my arm with a 
grip on his gullet, and so mauled him with my right 
fist that Friend Forest pulled me away, and my man 
staggered back, bloody, and white too, while I was 
held like a dog in leash. 

“ He hath enough, I think. Ask him.” 

I cried out, “ No ! Damn him ! ” It was my first 
oath. 

“ Hush ! ” cried Forest. “No profane language.” 

“ I will not speak to him,” said I, “ and— and— he 
is a beast of the pit.” Now this fine statement I 
had come upon in a book of Mr. William Penn’s my 
father owned, wherein the governor had denounced 
one Mr. Muggleton. 

Friend Forest laughed merrily. “ Thou hast thy 
standing, lad.” For Alloway walked sullenly away, 
not man enough to take more or to confess defeat. 
Jack, who was still white, said : 

“ It is my turn now, and which shall it be ? ” 

“ Shade of Fox ! ” cried Friend Forest. “ The war 
is over. Come, boys, I must see you well out of this.” 
And so reassuring us, he went down Fourth street, 
and to my home. 

My father was in the sitting-room, taking his long- 
stemmed reed pipe at his ease. He rose as we fol 
lowed Friend Forest into the room. 

“Well,” he said, “what coil is this?” For we 
were bloody, and hot with fight and wrath, and 
our garments in very sad disorder. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 49 


Friend Forest very quietly related our story, and 
made much of his own share in the renewal of our 
battle. To my surprise, my father smiled. 

“ It seems plain,” he said, “ that the lads were not 
to blame. But how wilt thou answer to the Meet- 
ing, Rupert Forest ? ” 

“ To it, to thee, to any man,” said the Quaker. 

“ It is but a month ago that thy case was before 
Friends because of thy having beaten Friend Wain’s 
man. It will go ill with thee— ill, I fear.” 

“ And who is to spread it abroad ? ” 

“Not I,” said my father. 

“I knew that,” returned the Friend, simply. “I 
am but a jack-in-the-box Quaker, John. I am in and 
out in a moment, and then I go back and repent.” 

“ Let us hope so. Go to thy mother, Hugh ; and 
as to thee, John Warder, wait until I send with thee 
a note to thy father. There are liquors on the table, 
Friend Forest.” 

My mother set us in order, and cried a little, and 
said: 

“ I am glad he was well beaten Thou shouldst 
never fight, my son ; but if thou must, let it be so 
that thy adversary repent of it. Mon Dieu! mon 
Dieul fen ai peur ; the wild Welsh blood of these 
Wynnes ! And thy poor little nose — how ’t is 
swelled ! ” 

Not understanding her exclamations, Jack said as 
much, but she answered : 

“ Oh, it is a fashion of speech we French have. I 
shall never be cured of it, I fear. This wild blood— 


50 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


what will come of it?” And she seemed— as Jack 
writes long after, being more observing than I— as 
if she were looking away into the distance of time, 
thinking of what might come to pass. She had, 
indeed, strange insight, and even then, as I knew 
later, had her fears and unspoken anxieties. And 
so, with a plentiful supper, ended a matter which 
was, I may say, a critical point in my life. 


FTER this my days went by more peace- 
fully, The help and example of Jack 
assisted me greatly in my lessons, which 
I did little relish. I was more fond of 
reading, and devoured many books as I 
sat under our orchard trees in the spring, or nestled 
up to the fire on the long winter evenings, coiled on 
the settle, that its high back might keep off drafts. 
My aunt lent me an abundance of books after that 
famous “ Travels ” of Mr. Gulliver. Now and then 
my father looked at what she gave me, but he soon 
tired of this, and fell asleep in the great oak chair 
which Governor Penn gave my grandfather. 

Many volumes, and some queer ones, I fell upon in 
my aunt’s house, but, save once, against the naughti- 
ness of Mrs. Aphra Behn, she never interfered. We 
liked greatly a book called “Peter Wilkins,” by one 
Paltock, full of a queer folk, who had winged “ graun- 
dees,” a sort of crimson robe made of folds of their 
own skin. None read it now. My dear Jack fancied 
it much more than I. 

I was nigh to fifteen before we read “Robinson 
Crusoe,” but even earlier I devoured at my aunt’s 
$1 



5 2 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


•‘Captain Jack” and “The History of the Devil.” 
The former book filled us with delight. Jack and 
I used to row over to Windmill Island, on the great 
Delaware, and there at the south end we built a hut, 
and slew bullfrogs, and found steps on the sand, I 
being thereafter Friday, and Jack my master. We 
made, too, a sail and mast for my boat, and, thus 
aided, sailed of Saturdays up and down the noble 
river, which I have always loved. 

A still greater joy was to go in our chaise with my 
mother to the governor’s woods, which extended from 
Broad street to the Schuylkill, and from Callowhill 
to South street. There we tied the horse, and under 
the great trees we found in spring arbutus, even be- 
neath the snow, and later fetched thence turkey-foot 
ferns, and wild honeysuckle, and quaker-ladies, with 
jack-in-the-pulpits and fearful gray corpse-lights hid 
away in the darker woods. In the forest my mother 
seemed even younger than at home, and played with 
us, and told us quaint tales of her French people, or 
fairy stories of Giant Jack and others, which were 
by no means such as Friends approved. 

In our house one same stern, unbending rule pre- 
vailed. I have been told by my aunt, Gain or Wynne, 
that when he was young my father was not always so 
steadfast in conduct as to satisfy Friends. When I 
was old enough to observe and think, he had surely 
become strict enough ; but this severity of opinion 
and action increased with years, and showed in ways 
which made life difficult for those near to him. In 
fact, before I attained manhood the tinted arms and 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 53 


the picture of Wyncote were put away in the attic 
room. My mother’s innocent love of ornament also 
became to him a serious annoyance, and these pecu- 
liarities seemed at last to deepen whenever the polit- 
ical horizon darkened. At such times he became 
silent, and yet more keen than usual to detect and 
denounce anything in our home life which was not 
to his liking. 

The affairs of a young fellow between the ages of 
childhood and younger manhood can have but meagre 
interest. Our school life went on, and while we 
worked or played, our elders saw the ever-increas- 
ing differences between king and colonies becoming 
year by year more difficult of adjustment. Except 
when some noisy crisis arose, they had for us lads 
but little interest. 

Most people used the city landings, or lightered 
their goods from ships in the stream. We, however, 
had a great dock built out near to the mouth of Dock 
Creek, and a warehouse. Hither came sloops from 
my father’s plantation of tobacco, near Annapolis, 
and others from the “permitted islands,” the Cape 
de Verde and the Madeiras. Staves for barrels, 
tobacco, and salt fish were the exports, and in return 
came Eastern goods brought to these islands, and 
huge tuns of Madeira wine. Rum, too, arrived from 
New England, and salted mackerel. What else my 
father imported, of French goods or tea, reached us 
from England, for we were not allowed to trade with 
the continent of Europe nor directly with India. 

Once my father took me with him to Lewes, near 


54 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

Cape Hinlopen, on one of his ships, and to my joy we 
were met there by Tom, our black slave, with horses, 
and rode back during two days by Newcastle and 
Chester. As I rode ill, of course, and was sore for a 
week, my father thought it well that I should learn to 
ride, and this exercise I took to easily. Just before I 
was sixteen my aunt gave me a horse, and after we 
had separated abruptly a few times, and no harm 
to any, I became the master, and soon an expert 
rider, as was needful in a land where most long jour- 
neys were made on horseback. 

It seems to me now, as I look back, that the events 
of life were preparing me and my friend Jack for 
what was to follow. Our boating made every part 
of the two rivers familiar. Now that I had a horse, 
Jack’s father, who would always do for him readily 
what my Aunt Gainor did for me, yielded to his de- 
sire to ride ; and so it was that we began, as leisure 
served, to extend our rides to Germantown, or even 
to Chestnut Hill. Thus all the outlying country 
became well known to both of us, and there was not 
a road, a brook, or a hill which we did not know. 

Until this happy time I had been well pleased to 
follow my aunt on a pillion behind her servant, 
Caesar, but now I often went with her, perched on 
my big horse, and got from my aunt, an excellent 
horsewoman, some sharp lessons as to leaping, and 
certain refinements in riding that she had seen or 
known of in London. 

A Captain Montresor— he who afterward, when a 
colonel, was Howe’s engineer— used to ride with her 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 55 


in the spring of ’69. He was a tall, stout man of 
middle age, and much spoken of as likely to marry 
my Aunt Gainor, although she was older than he, 
for, as fat Oliver de Lancey said years after, “ There 
is no age to a woman’s money, and guineas are al- 
ways young.” My aunt, Gainor Wynne, was still a 
fine gentlewoman, and did not look her years. As 
concerned this question of age, she was like a man, 
and so in fact she was in some other ways. She 
would tell any one how old she was. She once in- 
formed Mr. de Lancey that she was so much more of 
a man than any British officer she knew that she did 
not see how she could decently marry any of them. 

I think it was about this time that I saw a little 
scene which much impressed me, and which often re- 
curs to my memory. We— that is, Mr. Montresor, and 
my Aunt Gainor and I— of a Saturday afternoon rode 
over by the lower ferry and up Gray’s Lane, and so 
to Mr. Hamilton’s country-seat. “ The Woodlands,” 
as it was called, stood on a hill amid many beautiful 
trees and foreign shrubs and flowers. Below it ran 
the quiet Schuylkill, and beyond, above the gover- 
nor’s woods, could be seen far away Dr. Kearsley’s 
fine spire of Christ Church. No better did Master 
Wren himself ever contrive, or more proportioned to 
the edifice beneath it. 

On the porch were Mr. Hamilton and Mrs. Penn, 
with saucy gray eyes, and Mrs. Ferguson. A slim 
young girl, Rebecca Franks, was teasing a cat. She 
teased some one all her days, and did it merrily, and 
not unkindly. She was little and very pretty, with a 


56 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

dark skin. Did she dream she should marry a Brit- 
ish soldier— a baronet and general— and end her 
days in London well on in the century yet to come 1 

Andrew Allen, whose father, the chief justice, 
took his wife, Margaret, frorh; this house, sat on the 
steps near Miss Franks, and beside her little Peggy 
Shippen, who already gave promise of the beauty 
which won for her so pitiful a life. Nothing in 
this garden of gay women and flowers foretold the 
tragedy of West Point. I think of it now with sad 
wonder. 

In one or another way these people became known 
in our annals. Most of them were of the more exclu- 
sive party known as the governor’s set, and belonged 
to the Church of England. With the Galloways. 
Cadwaladers, Willings, Shippens, Rawles, and others, 
they formed a more or less distinct society, affecting 
London ways, dining at the extreme hour of four, 
loving cards, the dance, fox-hunting, and to see a 
main of game-cocks. Among them— not of them — 
came and went certain of what were called “gen- 
teel” Quakers— Morrises, Pembertons, Whartons, 
and Logans. They had races too,— that is, the gov- 
ernor’s set,— and one of my delights was, on the way 
to the academy, to stop in Third street, above Chest- 
nut, and see the race-horses in the Widow Nichols’s 
stables at the sign of the Indian Queen. 

But I have left the laughter of the last century 
echoing among the columns of Andrew Hamilton’s 
home. The guests were made welcome, an d had a dish 
of tea or a glass of punch ; and those desiring no more 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


bohea set a spoon across the cup, and fell into groups. 
My aunt opened the velvet bag which hung at her 
waist, to pay Mrs. Ferguson a small gambling debt 
of the night before. 

“ Ah, here ! ” she cried gaily, “ Mr. Montresor, this 
is for you. One of Mr. Grenville’s stamps ; I kept 
two. I was lucky enough to get them from Master 
Hughes, the stamp officer— a great curiosity. You 
shall have one.” 

Mr. Montresor bowed. “ I will keep it,” he said, 
“ until it comes into use again.” 

“ That will be never,” said Andrew Allen, turning. 

“ Never ! ” repeated Miss Wynne. “Let us hope, 
sir, it may be a lesson to all future ministers.” 

“A man was wanted in New York in place of Mr. 
Gage,” cried Mrs. Ferguson. “ As to those New Eng- 
land Puritans, they were in rebellion before they 
came over, and have been ever since.” 

“ And vrhat of New York, and this town, and Vir- 
ginia ? ” said my Aunt Gainor, with her great nose 
well up. 

“ I would have put an end to their disloyal ways, 
one and all,” cried Mrs. Ferguson. 

“ It is curious,” said Mr. Galloway, “ that the crown 
should be so thwarted. What people have more rea- 
son to be contented ? ” 

“Contented !” said Miss Wynne. “Already they 
talk of taxes in which we are to have no voice. Con- 
tented ! and not a ship dare trade with France. It 
amazes me that there is a man in the plantations to 
sit quiet under it.” 


58 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

“I am of your opinion, madam,” said Mr. Mac- 
pherson, “and I might go still further.” 

“ They consider us as mere colonials, and we may 
not so much as have a bishop of our own. I would 
I had my way, sir.” 

“And what would you do, Mistress Wynne?” 
asked Mr. Chew. 

“ I would say, ‘ Mr. Attorney-General, give us the 
same liberty all the English have, to go and come on 
the free seas ! ’ ” 

“ And if not ? ” said Montresor, smiling. 

“And if not,” she returned, “then— ” and she 
touched the sword at his side. I wondered to see 
how resolute she looked. 

The captain smiled. “I hope you will not com- 
mand a regiment, madam.” 

“ Would to God I could ! ” 

“I should run,” he cried, laughing. And thus 
pleasantly ended a talk which was becoming bitter 
to many of this gay company. 

Destiny was already sharpening the sword we were 
soon to draw, and of those who met and laughed that 
day there were sons who were to be set against 
fathers, and brothers whom war was to find in hos- 
tile ranks. A young fellow of my age, the son of 
Mr. Macpherson, sat below us on the steps with the 
girls. He was to leave his young life on the bastion 
at Quebec, and, for myself, how little did I dream of 
what I should get out of the devil-pot of war which 
was beginning to simmer ! 

Very soon I was sent with Rebecca Franks and 




Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 59 


Miss Chew to gather flowers. Miss Franks evidently 
despised my youth, and between the two little maids 
I, being unused to girls, had not a pleasant time, and 
was glad to get back to the porch, where we stood 
silent until bidden to be seated, upon which the girls 
curtseyed and I bowed, and then sat down to eat 
cakes and drink syllabub. 

At last my aunt put on her safeguard petticoat, 
the horses came, and we rode away. For a while she 
was silent, answering the captain in monosyllables ; 
but just beyond the ferry his horse cast a shoe, and 
went so lame that the officer must needs return to 
Woodlands leading him, there to ask a new mount 

For yet a while my aunt rode on without a word, 
but presently began to rally me as to Miss Chew. 
I had to confess I cared not for her or the other, or, 
indeed, for maids at all. 

“ It will come,” said she. “ Oh, it will come soon 
enough. Peggy Chew has the better manners. And, 
by the way, sir, when you bow, keep your back 
straight. Mr. Montresor has a pretty way of it. 
Observe him, Hugh. But he is a fool, and so are 
the rest ; and as for Bessy Ferguson, I should like to 
lay a whip over her back like that,” and she hit my 
horse sharply, poor thing, so that I lost a stirrup 
and came near to falling. 

When the beast got quiet I asked why these nice 
people, who had such pleasant ways, were all fools. 

“ I will tell you,” she said. u There are many and 
constant causes of trouble between* us and the king. 
When one ends, like this Stamp Act, another is 


6o Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


hatched. It was the best of us who left England, 
and we are trained to rely on ourselves, and have 
no need of England. You will live to see dark days, 
Hugh— just what, God alone can tell ) but you will 
live to see them, and your life will have to answer 
some questions. This may seem strange to you, my 
lad, but it will come.” 

What would come I knew not. She said no more, 
but rode homeward at speed, as she liked best to do. 

Thus time went by, until I was full sixteen, having 
been at the college a year later than was usual. I 
had few battles to fight, and contrived to keep these 
to myself, or to get patched up at my Aunt Wynne’s, 
who delighted to hear of these conflicts, and always 
gave me a shilling to heal my wounds. My dear, 
fair-haired Jack, Aunt Gainor thought a girl-boy, 
and fit only to sell goods, or, at best, to become a 
preacher. His father she used and disliked. 

Meanwhile we had been through Horace and 
Cicero,— and Ovid for our moral improvement, I 
suppose,— with Virgil and Sallust, and at last Caesar, 
whom alone of them all I liked. Indeed, Jack and 
I built over a brook in my Aunt Gainor’s garden at 
Chestnut Hill a fair model of Caesar’s great bridge 
over the Rhine. This admired product of our in- 
genuity was much praised by Captain Montresor, 
who was well aware of my aunt’s weakness for a 
certain young person. 

My father’s decisions came always without warm 
mg. In the fall of 1769 I was just gone back to the 
academy, and put to work at mathematics and some 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 61 


Greek under James Wilson, at that period one of the 
tutors, and some time later an associate judge of 
the Supreme Court. This great statesman and law- 
yer of after-days was a most delightful teacher. He 
took a fancy to my Jack, and, as we were insepa- 
rable, put up with my flippancy and deficient scholar- 
ship. Jack’s diary says otherwise, and that he saw in 
me that which, well used, might make of me a man 
of distinction. At all events, he liked well to walk 
with us on a Saturday, or to go in my boat, which 
was for us a great honour. My father approved of 
James Wilson, and liked him on the holiday to share 
our two-o’clock dinner. Then, and then only, did I 
understand the rigour and obstinacy of my father’s 
opinions, for they ofttimes fell into debate as to the 
right of the crown to tax us without representation. 
Mr. Wilson said many towns in England had no 
voice in Parliament, and that, if once the crown 
yielded the principle we stood on, it would change 
the whole political condition in the mother-land j 
and this the king would never agree to see. Mr. 
Wilson thought we had been foolish to say, as 
many did, that, while we would have no internal 
taxes, we would submit to a tax on imports. This ho 
considered even worse. My father was for obedience 
and non-resistance, and could not see that we were 
fighting a battle for the liberty of all Englishmen. 
He simply repeated his opinions, and was but a child 
in the hands of this clear-headed thinker. My father 
might well have feared for the effect of Mr. Wilson’s 
views on a lad of my age, in whose mind he opened 


62 , Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


vistas of thought far in advance of those which, with- 
out him, I should ever have seen. 

John Wynne was, however, too habitually accus- 
tomed to implicit obedience to dream of danger, and 
thus were early sown in my mind the seeds of future 
action, with some doubt as to my father’s ability to 
cope with a man like our tutor, who considerately 
weighed my father’s sentiments (they were hardly 
opinions), and so easily and courteously disposed of 
them that these logical defeats were clear even to us 
boys. 

Our school relations with this gentleman were 
abruptly broken. One day, in late October of 1769, 
we went on a long walk through the proprietary’s 
woods, gathering for my mother boughs of the many- 
tinted leaves of autumn. These branches she liked 
to set in jars of water in the room where we sat, so 
that it might be gay with the lovely colours she so 
much enjoyed. As we entered the forest about 
Eighth street Mr. Wilson joined us, and went along, 
chatting agreeably with my mother. Presently he 
said to me : “ I have just left your father with Mr. 
Pemberton, talking about some depredations in Mr. 
Penn’s woods. He tells me you boys are to leave 
school, but for what I do not know. I am sorry.” 

Jack and I had of late expected this, and I, for 
one, was not grieved, but my friend was less well 
pleased. 

We strolled across to the Schuylkill, and there, 
sitting down, amused ourselves with making a little 
crown of twisted twigs and leaves of the red and yel- 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 63 

low maples. This we set merrily on my mother’s gray 
beaver, while Mr. Wilson declared it most becoming. 
Just then Friend Pemberton and my father came 
upon us, and, as usual when the latter appeared, our 
laughter ceased. 

“ I shall want thee this afternoon, Hugh,” he said. 
“And what foolishness is this on thy head, wife? 
Art thou going home in this guise ? ” 

“ It seems an innocent prettiness,” said Pemberton, 
while my mother, in no wise dismayed, looked up 
with her big blue eyes. 

“ Thou wilt always be a child,” said my father. 

“Je Vesper e ,” said the mother $ “must I be put in 
a corner? The bon Dieu hath just changed the 
forest fashions. I wonder is He a Quaker, Friend 
Pemberton ? ” 

“Thou hast ever a neat answer,” said the gentle 
old man. “ Come, John, we are not yet done.” 

My father said no more, and we boys were still as 
mice. We went homeward with our mirth quite at 
an end, Jack and Wilson leaving us at Fourth street. 

In the afternoon about six— for an hour had been 
named— I saw my aunt’s chaise at the door. I knew 
at once that something unusual was in store, for 
Mistress Wynne rarely came hither except to see my 
mother, and then always in the forenoon. Moreover, 
I noticed my father at the window, and never had I 
known him to return so earty. When I went in he 
said at once : 

“ I have been telling thy aunt of my intention in 
regard to thee.” 


64 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


u And I utterly disapprove of it,” said my aunt. 

“ Wait,” lie said. “ I desire that thou shalt enter as 
one of my clerks ; but first it is my will that, as the 
great and good proprietary decreed, thou shouldst 
acquire some mechanic trade ,* I care not what.” 

I was silent ; I did not like it. Even far later, cer- 
tain of the stricter Friends adhered to a rule which 
was once useful, but was now no longer held to be of 
imperative force. 

“I would suggest shoemaking,” said my Aunt 
Gainor, scornfully, “ or tailoring.” 

“ I beg of thee, Gainor,” said my mother, “ not to 
discontent the lad.” 

“In this matter,” returned my father, “I will not 
be thwarted. I asked thee to come hither, not to 
ridicule a sensible decision, but to consult upon it.” 

“ You have had all my wisdom,” said the lady. 
“ I had thought to ask my friend, CharlesTownsliend, 
for a pair of colours ; but now that troops are sent to 
Boston to override all reason, I doubt it. Do as you 
will with the boy. I wash my hands of him.” 

This was by no means my father’s intention. 1 
saw his face set in an expression I well knew ; but 
my mother laid a hand on his arm, and, with what 
must have been a great effort, he controlled his 
anger, and said coldly : “ I have talked this over with 
thy friend, Joseph Warder, and he desired that his 
son should share in my decision as to Hugh. Talk 
to him, Gainor.” 

“ I do not take counsel with my agent, John. He 
does as I bid him. I could shift his opinions at a 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 05 


word. He is a Tory to-day, and a Whig to-morrow, 
and anything to anybody. Why do you talk such 
nonsense to me ? Let me tell you that he has already 
been to ask me what I think of it. He feels some 
doubt, poor man. Indeed, he is disposed to consider. 
Bother ! what does it matter what he considers f ” 

“ If he has changed his mind I have not. Joseph 
hath ever a coat of many colours.” 

“ I shall tell him,” she cried, laughing. The Quaker 
rule of repression and non-resistance by no means 
forbade the use of the brutal bludgeon of sarcasm, 
as many a debate in Meeting could testify. She rose 
as she spoke, and my mother said gently : 

“ Thou wilt not tell him, Gainor.” 

Meanwhile I stood amazed at a talk which so 
deeply concerned me. 

“ Shall it be a smithy ? ” said my father. 

“ Oh, what you like. The Wynnes are well down 
in the world— trade, horseshoeing. Good evening.” 

“ Gainor ! Gainor ! ” cried my mother ; but she was 
gone in wrath, and out of the house. 

“Thou wilt leave the academy. I have already 
arranged with Lowry, in South street, to take thee. 
Three months should answer.” 

To this I said, “Yes, yes,” and went away but little 
pleased, my mother saying, “ It is only for a time, 
my son.” 


V 



AYS my friend Jack in his journal : 

“ The hoys were in these times keen 
politicians whenever any unusual event 
occurred, and the great pot was like soon 
to boil furiously, and scald the cooks. 
Charles Townshend’s ministry was long over. The 
Stamp Act had come and gone. The Non-importa- 
tion Agreement had been signed even by men like 
Andrew Allen and Mr. Penn. Lord North, a gentle 
and obstinate person, was minister. The Lord Hills- 
borough, a man after the king’s heart, had the colo- 
nial office. The troops had landed in Boston, and 
the letters of Dickinson and Yindex had fanned 
the embers of discontent into flame. 

“ Through it all we boys contrived to know every- 
thing that was happening. I had a sense of fear about 
it, but to Hugh I think it was delightful. A fire, a mob, 
confusion, and disorder appeal to most boys’ minds 
as desirable. My father was terrified at the disturb- 
ance of commerce, and the angry words which began 
to be heard. Mr. John Wynne very coolly ad- 
justed his affairs, as I have heard, and settled down 
with the Friends, such as Wain and Shoemaker and 
66 



Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 67 


Pemberton and the rest, to accept whatever the king 
might decree.” 

Jack and I talked it all over in wild boy fashion, 
and went every day at six in the morning to Lowry’s 
on South street. At first we both hated the work, 
but this did not last; and, once we were used to 
it, the business had for fellows like ourselves a 
certain charm. The horses we learned to know and 
understand. Their owners were of a class with which 
in those days it was not thought seemly for persons 
of our degree to be familiar; here it was unavoid- 
able, and I soon learned how deep in the hearts of 
the people was the determination to resist the author- 
ity of the crown. 

The lads we knew of the gay set used to come and 
laugh at us, as we plied the hammer or blew the 
bellows ; and one day Miss Franks and Miss Peggy 
Chew, and I think Miss Shippen, stood awhile with- 
out the forge, making very merry. J ack got red in 
the face, but I was angry, worked on doggedly, and 
said nothing. At last I thrashed soundly one Master 
Galloway, who called me a horse-cobbler, and after 
that no more trouble. 

. I became strong and muscular as the work went on, 
and got to like our master, who was all for liberty, 
and sang as he struck, and taught me much that was 
useful as to the management of horses, so that I 
was not long unhappy. My father, pleased at my 
diligence, once said to me that I seemed to be at- 
tentive to the business in hand ; and, as far as I 
remember, this was the only time in my life that 


68 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


he ever gave me a word of even the mildest com- 
mendation. 

It was what Jack most needed. His slight, 
graceful figure filled out and became very straight, 
losing a stoop it had, so that he grew to be a well- 
built, active young fellow, rosy, and quite too pretty, 
with his blond locks. After our third month began, 
Lowry married a widow, and moved away to her farm 
up the country and beyond the Blue Bell tavern, 
where he carried on his business, and where he was to 
appear again to me at a time when I sorely needed 
him. It was to be another instance of how a greater 
Master overrules our lives for good. 

Just after we had heard the news of the widow, 
my father came into the forge one day with Joseph 
Warder. He stood and watched me shoe a horse, and 
asked Lowry if I had learned the business. When 
he replied that we both might become more expert, 
but that we could make nails, and shoe fairly well, 
my father said : 

u Take off these aprons, and go home. There will 
be other work for both of you.” 

We were glad enough to obey, and, dropping our 
leathern aprons, thus ended our apprenticeship. 
Next week Tom Lowry, our master, appeared with 
a fine beaver for me, saying, as I knew, that it was 
the custom to give an apprentice a beaver when his 
time was up, and that he had never been better 
served by any. 

My Aunt Gainor kept away all this time, and 
made it clear that she did not wish my black hands 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 69 


at her table. My father, no doubt, felt sure that, so 
far as I was concerned, she would soon or late relent. 
This, in fact, came about in midwinter, upon her 
asking my mother to send me to see her. My father 
observed that he had no will to make quarrels, or 
to keep them alive. My mother smiled demurely, 
knowing him as none other did, and bade me go 
with her. 

In her own room she had laid out on the bed a 
brown coat of velveteen, with breeches to match, and 
stockings with brown clocks, and also a brown beaver, 
the back looped up, all of which she had, with sweet 
craftiness, provided, that I might appear well before 
my Aunt Gainor. 

“ Thou wilt fight no one on the way, Hugh. And 
now, what shall be done with his hands, so rough and 
so hard ? Scrub them well. Tell Gainor I have two 
new lilies for her, just come from Jamaica. Bulbs 
they are ; I will care for them in the cellar. I was 
near to forget the marmalade of bitter orange. She 
must send ; I cannot trust Tom. Thy father had him 
whipped at the jail yesterday, and he is sulky. Put 
on thy clothes, and I will come again to. see how 
they fit thee” 

In a little while she was back again, declaring I 
looked a lord, and that if she were a girl she should 
fall in love with me, and then— “But I shall never 
let any woman but me kiss thee. I shall be jealous. 
And now, sir, a bow. That was better. Now, as I 
curtsey, it is bad manners to have it over before I am 
fully risen. Then it is permitted that les beaux yeux 


jo Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

& rencontrent. Gomme ga. Ca va bien. That is bet- 
ter done.” 

“ What vanities are these ? ” said my father at the 
door she had left open. 

She was nowise alarmed. “ Come in, John,” she 
cried. “He does not yet bow as well as thou. It 
would crack some Quaker backs, I think. I can hear 
Friend Wain’s joints creak when he gets up.” 

“ Nonsense, wife ! Thou art a child to this day.” 

“ Then kiss me, mon p&re” And she ran to him 
and stood on tiptoe, so engaging and so pretty that he 
could not help but lift up her slight figure, and, kiss- 
ing her, set her down. It was a moment of rare ten- 
derness. Would I had known or seen more like it ! 

“ Thou wilt ruin him, wife.” 

As I ran down the garden she called after me, 
“Do not thou forget to kiss her hand. To-morrow 
will come the warehouse ; but take the sweets of life 
as they offer. Adieu.” She stood to watch me, all 
her dear heart in her eyes, something pure, and, as 
it were, virginal in her look. God rest her soul ! 

It was late when I got to my aunt’s, somewhere 
about eight, and the hum of voices warned me of her 
having company. As I entered she rose, expecting 
an older guest, and, as I had been bid, I bowed low 
and touched her hand with my lips, as I said : 

“ Dear Aunt Gainor, it has been so long ! ” I could 
have said nothing better. She laughed. 

“ Here is my nephew, Mr. Etherington ’’—this to an 
English major ; “ and, Captain Wallace of the king’s 
navy, my nephew . 9 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 71 

The captain was a rough, boisterous sailor, and the 
other a man with too much manner, and, as I heard 
later, risen from the ranks. 

He saluted me with a lively thump on the shoul- 
der, which I did not relish. “ Zounds ! sir, but you 
are a stout young Quaker ! ” 

“We are most of us Quakers here, captain,” said a 
quiet gentleman, who saw, I fancy, by my face that 
this rude greeting was unpleasant to me. 

“ How are you, Hugh?” This was the Master 
of the Rolls, Mr. John Morris. Then my aunt said, 
“ Go and speak to the ladies— you know them ; ” and 
as I turned aside, “ I beg pardon, Sir William ; this 
is my nephew, Hugh Wynne.” This was addressed 
to a high-coloured personage in yellow velvet with 
gold buttons, and a white flowered waistcoat, and 
with his queue in a fine hair-net. 

“ This is Sir William Draper, Hugh ; he who took 
Manilla, as you must know.” I did not, nor did I 
know until later that he was one of the victims of 
the sharp pen of Junius, with whom, for the sake of 
the Marquis of Granby, he had rashly ventured to 
tilt. The famous soldier smiled as I saluted him 
with my best bow. 

“Fine food for powder, Mistress Wynne, and al- 
ready sixteen ! I was in service three years earlier. 
Should he wish for an ensign’s commission, I am at 
your service.” 

“ Ah, Sir William, that might have been, a year or 
so ago, but now he may have to fight General Gage.” 

“ The gods forbid ! Our poor general ! ” 


J2 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


c Mistress Wynne is a rank Whig,” put in Mrs. 
Ferguson. “She reads Dickinson's 1 Farmer's Let- 
ters/ and all the wicked treason of that man Adams." 

“ A low demagogue ! " cried Mrs. Galloway. “ I 
hear there have been disturbances in Boston, and 
that because one James Otis has been beaten by our 
officers, and because our bands play 1 Yankee Doodle ' 
on Sundays in front of the churches— I beg pardon, 
the meetings— Mr. Robinson, the king's collector, has 
had to pay and apologise. Most shameful it is ! " 

“ I should take short measures," said the sailor. 

“And I," cried Etherington. a I have just come 
from Virginia, but not a recruit could I get. It is 
like a nest of ants in a turmoil, and the worst of 
all are the officers who served in the French war. 
There is, too, a noisy talker, Patrick Henry, and a 
Mr. Washington." 

“ I think it was he who saved the wreck of the king's 
army under Mr. Braddock," said my aunt. “ I can 
remember how they all looked. Not a wig among 
them. The lodges must have been full of them, but 
their legs saved their scalps." 

“Is it for this they call them wigwams?" cries 
naughty Miss Chew. 

“ Fie ! fie ! " says her mamma, while my aunt 
laughed merrily. 

“A mere Potomac planter," said Etherington, “ 'pon 
my soul— and with such airs, as if they were gentle- 
men of the line." 

“ Perhaps," said my aunt, “ they had not had your 
opportunities of knowing all grades of the service." 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 73 

The major flushed. “I have served the king as 
well as I know how, and I trust, madam, I shall have 
the pleasure to aid in the punishment of some of 
these insolent rebels.” 

“May you be there to see, Hugh,” said my aunt, 
laughing. 

Willing to make a diversion, Mrs. Chew said, “ Let 
us defeat these Tories at the card-table, Gainor ” 

“ With all my heart,” said my aunt, glad of thir 
turn in the talk. 

“ Come and give me luck, Hugh,” said Mrs. Fergu- 
son. “ What a big fellow you are ! Your aunt must 
find you ruffles soon, and a steenkirk.” 

With this I sat down beside her, and wondered to 
see how eager and interested they all became, and 
how the guineas and gold half -joes passed from one 
to another, while the gay Mrs. Ferguson, who was at 
the table with Mrs. Penn, Captain Wallace, and my 
aunt, gave me my first lesson in this form of in- 
dustry. 

A little later there was tea, chocolate, and rusks, 
with punch for the men ; and Dr. Shippen came in, 
and the great Dr. Rush, with his delicate, clean-cut 
face under a full wig. Dr. Shippen was full of talk 
about some fine game-cocks, and others were busy 
with the spring races in Centre Square. 

You may be sure I kept my ears open to hear what 
all these great men said. I chanced to hear Dr. Rush 
deej in talk behind the punch-table with a handsome 
young man, Dr. Morgan, newly come from London. 

Dr. Rush said, “ I have news to-day, in a letter from 


74 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

Mr. Adams, of things being unendurable. He is bold 
enough to talk of separation from England ; but that 
is going far, too far.” 

“I think so, indeed,” said Morgan. “I saw Dr. 
Franklin in London. He advises conciliation, and 
not to act with rash haste. These gentlemen yon- 
der make it difficult.” 

u Yes ; there is no insolence like that of the soldier.” 
And this was all I heard or remember, for my aunt 
bade me run home and thank my mother, telling 
me to come again and soon. 

The plot was indeed thickening, and even a lad 
as young as I could scent peril in the air. At home 
I heard nothing of it. No doubt my father read at 
his warehouse the “ Pennsylvania Journal,” or more 
likely Galloway’s gazette, the “ Chronicle,” which was 
rank Tory, and was suppressed in 1773. But outside 
of the house I learned the news readily. Mr. War- 
der took papers on both sides, and also the Boston 
“ Packet,” so that Jack and I were well informed, and 
used to take the gazettes when his father had read 
them, and devour them safely in our boat, when by 
rare chance I had a holiday. 

And so passed the years 1770, 1771, and 1772, 
when Lord North precipitated the crisis by attempt- 
ing to control the judges in Massachusetts, who were 
in future to be paid by the crown, and would thus 
pass under its control Adams now suggested com- 
mittees of correspondence, and thus the first step 
toward united action was taken. 

These years, up to the autumn of 1772, were not 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 75 


without influence on my own life for both good and 
evil. I was, of course, kept sedulously at work at our 
business, and, though liking it even less than farriery, 
learned it well enough. It was not without its plea- 
sures. Certainly it was an agreeable thing to know 
the old merchant captains, and to talk to their men 
or themselves. The sea had not lost its romance. 
Men could remember Kidd and Blackbeard. In the 
low-lying dens below Dock Creek and on King street, 
were many, it is to be feared, who had seen the black 
flag flying, and who knew too well the keys and 
shoals of the West Indies. The captain who put to 
sea with such sailors had need to be resolute and 
ready. Ships went armed, and I was amazed to see, 
in the holds of our own ships, carronades, which out 
on the ocean were hoisted up and set in place on deck ; 
also cutlasses and muskets in the cabin, and good 
store of pikes. I ventured once to ask my father if 
this were consistent with non-resistance. He replied 
that pirates were like to wild beasts, and that I had 
better attend to my business ; after which I said no 
more, having food for thought. 

These captains got thus a noble training, were splen- 
did seamen, and not unused to arms and danger, as 
proved fortunate in days to come. Once I would 
have gone to the Madeiras with Captain Biddle, but 
unluckily my mother prevailed with my father to 
forbid it. It had been better for me had it been de- 
cided otherwise, because I was fast getting an edu- 
cation which did me no good. 

Indeed,” says Jack later on in his diary, “I was 


j6 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


much troubled in those seventies ” (he means up to 
’74, when we were full twenty-one) “ about my friend 
Hugh. The town was full of officers of all grades, 
who came and went, and brought with them much 
licence and contempt for colonists in general, and a 
silly way of parading their own sentiments on all 
occasions. Gambling, hard drinking, and all manner 
of worse things became common and more openly 
indulged in. Neither here nor in Boston could young 
women walk about unattended, a new and strange 
thing in our quiet town. 

“ Mistress Gainor’s house was full of these gentle- 
men, whom she entertained with a freedom only 
equalled by that with which she spoke her good 
Whig mind. The air was full of excitement. Busi- 
ness fell off, and Hugh and I had ample leisure to 
do much as we liked. 

11 1 must honestly declare that I deserve no praise 
for having escaped the temptations which beset 
Hugh. I hated all excess, and suffered in body if I 
drank or ate more than was wise. As regards worse 
things than wine and cards, I think Miss Wynne was 
right when she described me as a girl-boy ; for the 
least rudeness or laxity of talk in women I disliked, 
and as to the mere modesties of the person, I have 
always been like some well-nurtured maid. 

“ Thus it was that when Hugh, encouraged by his 
aunt, fell into the company of these loose, swagger- 
ing captains and cornets, I had either to give up 
him, who was unable to resist them, or to share 
in their vicious ways myself. It was my personal 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 77 

disgust at drunkenness or loose society which saved 
me, not any moral or religious safeguards, although 
I trust I was not altogether without these helps. I 
have seen now and then that to be refined in tastes 
and feelings is a great aid to a virtuous life. Also I 
have known some who would have been drunkards 
but for their heads and stomachs, which so be- 
haved as to be good substitutes for conscience. It 
is sometimes the body which saves the soul. Both 
of these helps I had, but my dear Hugh had neither. 
He was a great, strong, masculine fellow, and if I 
may seem to have said that he wanted refined feel- 
ings, that is not so, and to him, who will never read 
these lines, and to myself, I must apologise.” 

I did come to see these pages, as you know. I 
think he meant, that with the wine of youth and at 
times of other vintages, in my veins, the strong pater- 
nal blood, which in my father only a true, if hard, 
religion kept in order, was too much for me. If I 
state this awkwardly it is because all excuses are 
awkward. Looking back, I wonder that I was not 
worse, and that I did not go to the uttermost devil. 
I was vigorous, and had the stomach of a temperate 
ox, and a head which made no complaints. The 
morning after some mad revel I could rise at five, and 
go out in my boat and overboard, and then home in 
a glow, with a fine appetite for breakfast ; and I was 
so big and tall that I was thought to be many years 
older than I was. 

I should have been less able unwatched to go 
down this easy descent, had it not been for a train 


7 8 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


of circumstances which not only left me freer than I 
ought to have been, but, in the matter of money, made 
it only too possible for me to hold my own amid 
evil or lavish company. My aunt had lived in Lon- 
don, and in a society which had all the charm of 
breeding, and all the vices of a period more coarse 
than ours. She detested my father’s notions, and if 
she meant to win me to her own she took an ill way 
to do it. I was presented to the English officers, and 
freely supplied with money, to which I had been 
quite unused, so long as my father was the only 
source of supply. We were out late when I was 
presumed to be at my Aunt Gainor’s j and to drink 
and bet, or to see a race or cock-fight, or to pull 
off knockers, or to bother the ancient watchmen, 
were now some of my most reputable amusements. 
I began to be talked about as a bit of a rake, and 
my Aunt Gainor was not too greatly displeased j she 
would hear of our exploits and say 11 Fie ! fie ! ” and 
then give me more guineas. Worse than all, my 
father was deep in his business, lessening his ven- 
tures, and thus leaving me more time to sow the 
seed of idleness. Everything, as I now see it, com- 
bined to make easy for me the downward path. I 
went along it without the company of Jack Warder, 
and so we drew apart ; he would none of it. 

When my father began to withdraw his capital my 
mother was highly pleased, and more than once in 
my presence said to him: “Why, John, dost thou 
strive for more and more money? Hast thou not 
enough ? Let us give up all this care and go to our 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 79 

great farm at Merion, and live as peaceful as our 
cattle.” She did not reckon upon the force with 
which the habits of a life bound my father to his 
business. 

Iremember that it wasfaronin April, 1773, whenmy 
Aunt Gainor appeared one day in my father’s count- 
ing-house. Hers was a well-known figure on King 
street, and even in the unpleasant region alongshore 
to the south of Dock street. She would dismount, 
leave her horse to the groom, and, with a heavily 
mounted, silver-topped whip in hand, and her riding- 
petticoat gathered up, would march along, picking 
her way through mud and filth. Here she contrived 
to find the queer china things she desired, or in some 
mysterious way she secured cordials and such liquors 
as no one else could get. 

Once she took my mother with her, and loaded her 
with gods of the Orient and fine China pongee silks. 

“ But, Hugh,” said the dear lady, “ il n’est pas pos- 
sible de voas la decrire. Mon Dieu ! she can say ter- 
rible words, and I have seen a man who ventured 
some rudeness to me— no, no, mon cher , nothing to 
anger you ; il avcdt peur de cette femme. He was 
afraid of her— her and her whip. He was so alarmed 
that he let her have a great china mandarin for a 
mere nothing. I think he was glad to see her well 
out of his low*' tavern.” 

“ But the man,” I urged ; “ what did he say to thee, 
mother ? ” 

“ Wimporte, mon fils. I did want the mandarin. 
He nodded this way— this way. He wagged his head 


80 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 

as a dog wags his tail, like Thomas Seattergood in 
the Meeting. Comme $d.” She became that man in a 
moment, turning up the edge of her silk shawl, and 
nodding solemnly. I screamed with laughter. Ever 
since I was a child, despite my father’s dislikes, she 
had taught me French, and when alone with me 
liked me to chatter in her mother language. In 
fact, I learned it well. 

On the occasion of which I began just now to 
speak, my Aunt Gainor entered, with a graver face 
than common, and I rising to leave her with my 
father, she put her whip across my breast as I turned, 
and said, “No ; I want you to hear what I have to 
say.” 

“ What is it, Gainor ? ” 

“This business of the ship 1 Gaspee’ the Rhode Isl- 
and men burned is making trouble in the East. The 
chief justice of Rhode Island, Hopkins, has refused 
to honour the order to arrest these Rhode-Islanders.” 

“ Pirates ! ” said my father. 

.“ Pirates, if you like. We shall all be pirates be- 
fore long.” 

“Well, Gainor, is that all ? It does not concern me.” 

“No; I have letters from London which inform 
me that the Lord North is but a puppet, and as the 
king pulls the wires he will dance to whatever tune 
the king likes. He was a nice, amiame young fellow 
when I stayed at his father’s, my Lord Guilford’s, 
and not without learning and judgment. But for 
the Exchequer— a queer choice, I must say.” 

“ It is to be presumed that the king knows how to 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 81 


choose his ministers. Thou knowest what I think, 
Gainor. We have but to obey those whom the Lord 
has set over us. We are told to render unto Caesar 
the things which are Caesar’s, and to go our ways in 
peace.” 

“The question is, What are Caesar’s?” said my 
aunt. “ Shall Caesar judge always ? I came to tell 
you that it is understood in London, although not 
public, that it is meant to tax our tea. Now we do 
not buy; we smuggle it from Holland; but if the 
India Company should get a drawback on tea, we 
shall be forced to take it for its cheapness, even with 
the duty on it of threepence a pound.” 

“It were but a silly scheme, Gainor. I cannot 
credit it.” 

“ Who could, John ? and yet it is to be tried, and 
all for a matter of a few hundred pounds a year. It 
will be tried not now or soon, but next fall when the 
tea-ships come from China.” 

“ And if it is to be as thou art informed, what of 
it?” 

“A storm— a tempest in a teapot,” said she. 

My father stood still, deep in thought. He had 
a profound respect for the commercial sagacity of 
this clear-headed woman. Moreover, he was sure, 
as usual, to be asked to act in Philadelphia as a con- 
signee of the India Company. 

She seemed to see through her brother, as one sees 
through glass. “You got into trouble when the 
stamps came.” 

“ What has that got to do with this?” 


82 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“And again when you would not sign the Non- 
importation Agreement in ’68.” 

“Well?” 

“ They will ask you to receive the tea.” 

“ And I will do it. How can I refuse ? I should 
lose all their India trade.” 

“ There will soon be no trade to lose. You are, as 
I know, drawing in your capital. Go abroad. Wind 
up your affairs in England ; do the same in Holland. 
Use all your ships this summer. Go to Madeira from 
London. Buy freely, and pay at once so as to save 
interest ; it will rise fast. Come home in the fall of 
74 late. Hold the goods, and, above all, see that 
in your absence no consignments be taken. Am I 
clear, John?” 

I heard her with such amazement as was shared 
by my father. The boldness and sagacity of the 
scheme impressed a man trained to skill in com- 
merce, and ever given to courageous ventures. 

“You must sail in October or before ; you will, 
need a year. No less will do.” 

“ Yes— yes.” 

I saw from his look that he was captured. He 
walked to and fro, while my Aunt Gainor switched 
the dust off her petticoat or looked out of the win- 
dow. At last she turned to me. “ What think you 
of it, Hugh ? ” 

“Mr. Wilson says we shall have war, aunt, and 
Mr. Attorney-General Chew is of the same opinion. 
I heard them talking of it last night at thy house. I 
think the king’s officers want a war.” I took refuge, 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 83 


shrewdly, in the notions of my elders. I had 
no wiser thing to say. “ I myself do not know,” I 
added. 

“ How shouldst thou ? ” said my father, sharply. 

I was silent. 

“ And what think you, John ? ” 

“ What will my wife say, Gainor ? We have never 
been a month apart.” 

“ Let me talk to her.” 

“ Wilt thou share in the venture ? ” He was testing 
the sincerity of her advice. “ And to what extent ? ” 

“Five thousand pounds. You may draw on me 
from London, and buy powder and muskets,” she 
added, with a smile. 

“Not I. Why dost thou talk such folly?” 

“ Then Holland blankets and good cloth. I will 
take them off your hands at a fair profit.” 

“ I see no objection to that.” 

My aunt gave me a queer look, saying, “ The poor 
will need them. I shall sell them cheap.” 

It was singular that I caught her meaning, while 
my father, reflecting on the venture as a whole, did 
not. 

“ I will do it,” he said. 

“ Then a word more. Be careful here as to debts. 
Why not wind up your business, and retire with 
the profit you will make ? ” It was the same advice 
my mother had given, as I well knew. 

“ Hast thou been talking to my wife ? ” he said. 

“ No,” she replied, surprised ; “ may I ? ” 

“Yes As to going out of business, Gainor, I 


84 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


should be but a lost man. I am not as well-to-do 
as thou dost seem to think.” 

“ Stuff and nonsense ! ” cried my aunt. u I believe 
Thomas Willing is no better off in what you call this 
world’s gear, nor Franks, nor any of them. You like 
the game, and, after all, what is it but a kind of gam- 
bling? How do you know what hands the ocean 
holds ? Your ventures are no better than my guineas 
cast down on the loo-table.” These two could never 
discuss anything but what it must end in a dif- 
ference. 

“ Thou art a fool, Gainor, to talk such wicked non- 
sense before this boy. It is not worth an answer. I 
hear no good of Hugh of late. He hath been a con- 
cern to James Pemberton and to my friend, Nicholas 
Wain, and to me— to me. Thy gambling and idle 
redcoats are snares to his soul. He has begun to 
have opinions of his own as to taxes, and concerning 
the plain duty of non-resistance. As if an idle dog 
like him had any right to have an opinion at all ! ” 

“ Tut ! tut ! ” cried Miss Wynne. 

“ I am not idle,” I said, “ if I am a dog.” 

He turned and seized me by the collar. “ I will 
teach thee to answer thy elders.” And with this he 
shook me violently, and caught up a cane from a 
chair where he had laid it. 

And now, once again, that disposition to be merry 
came over me, and, perfectly passive, I looked up at 
him and smiled. As I think of it, it was strange in 
a young fellow of my age. 

“ Wouldst thou laugh?” he cried. “Has it gone 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 85 

that far ? ” and he raised his stick. My Aunt Gainor 
jerked it out of his hand, and, standing, broke it 
over her knee as if it had been a willow wand. 

He fell back, crying, “ Gainor ! Gainor ! ” 

“ My God ! man,” she cried, “ are you mad ? If I 
were you I would take some heed to that hot Welsh 
blood. What would my good Marie say ? Why have 
you not had the sense to make a friend of the boy? 
He is worth ten of you, and has kept his temper like 
the gentleman he is.” 

It was true. I had some queer sense of amusement 
in the feeling that I really was not angry; neither 
was I ashamed ; but an hour later I was both angry 
and ashamed. Just now I felt sorry for my father, 
and shared the humiliation he evidently felt. 

My aunt turned to her brother, where, having let 
me go, he stood with set features, looking from her 
to me, and from me to her. Something in his look 
disturbed her. 

“ You should be proud of his self-command. Can- 
not you see that it is your accursed repression and 
dry, dreary life at home that has put you two apart ? ” 

“ I have been put to scorn before my son, Gainor 
Wynne. It is thy evil ways that have brought this 
about. I have lost my temper and would have struck 
in anger, when I should have reflected, and, after 
prayer, chastised this insolence at home.” 

“ I heard no insolence.” 

“Go away, Hugh, and thou, Gainor. Why dost 
thou always provoke me ? I will hear no more ! ” 

“ Come, Hugh,” she said ; and then : “ It seems to 


86 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


me that the boy has had a good lesson in meekness, 
and as to turning that other cheek.” 

“ Don’t, Aunt Gainor ! ” said I, interrupting her. 

“ Oh, go ! ” exclaimed my father. “ Go ! go, both 
of you ! ” 

u Certainly; but, John, do not mention my news 
or my London letter.” 

“ I shall not.” 

" Then by-by ! Come. Hugh ! * 


VI 


HERE must have been in this troubled 
country many such sad scenes as I have 
tried to recall. Father and son were 
to part with hot words, brother to take 
sides against brother. My unpleasant 
half-hour was but prophetic of that which was to 
come in worse shape, and to last for years. 

My Aunt Gainor said, “ Do not tell your mother,” 
and I assuredly did not. 

“He will tell her. He tells her everything, soon 
or late. I must see her at once. Your father is be- 
coming, as the French say, impossible. The times, 
and these wrangling Friends, with their stupid tes- 
timonies, irritate him daily until he is like a great, 
strong bull, such as the Spaniards tease to madness 
with little darts and fireworks. You see, Hugh, 
events are prickly things. They play the deuce with 
obstinate people. Your father will be better away 
from home. He has never been in England, and he 
will see how many, like Mr. Pitt and Colonel Barre, 
are with us. As for myself, I have been a bit of a 
fool about you, and your father is more or less right 
We must abjure sack and take physic.” 

s? 




88 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ What ? ” said I. 

“To be plain, we must— that is, you must— play 
less and drink less, and in your father’s absence 
look sharply, with my help, to his business.” 

I was to need other doctors before I mended my 
ways. I said my aunt was right, and I made cer- 
tain good resolutions, which were but short-lived and 
never reached adult maturity of usefulness. 

My aunt walked with me north between the ware- 
houses, taverns, and ship-chandlers on the river- 
front, and so across the bridge over Dock Creek, and 
up to Third street. She said I must not talk to her. 
She had thinking to do, and for this cause, I suppose, 
turning, took me down to Pine street. At St. Peter’s 
Church she stopped, and bade me wait without, add- 
ing, “ If I take you in I shall hear of it ; wait.” 

There was a midday service at this time, it being 
Lent. I waited idly, thinking of my father, and, as 
I before said, vexed and sorry and ashamed by turns. 
Often now I pause before I enter this sacred edifice, 
and think of that hour of tribulation. I could hear 
the fine, full voice of the Rev. Dr. Duche as he in- 
toned the Litany. He lies now where I stood, and 
under the arms on his tomb is no record of the 
political foolishness and instability of a life otherwise 
free from blame. As I stood, Mrs. Ferguson came 
out, she who in days to come helped to get the un- 
lucky parson into trouble. With her came my aunt. 

“ I said a prayer for thee, Hugh,” she whispered. 
“No^ no cards in Lent,, my dear Bess. Fie! for 
shame! This way, Hugh*,” and we went east. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 89 


through Pine street, and so to the hack of our gar- 
den, where we found a way in, and, walking under 
the peach-trees, came to where my mother sat be- 
neath a plum-tree, shelling peas, her great Manx cat 
by her side. 

She wore a thin cap on top of the curly head, 
which was now wind-blown out of all order. “ Come, 
Gainor,” she cried, seeing us ; “ help me to shell my 
peas. Thou shalt have some. They are come in a 
ship from the Bermudas. What a pretty pale green 
the pods are ! I should like an apron of that colour.” 

“ I have the very thing, dear. Shall it be the min- 
uet pattern, or plain ? ” 

“ Oh, plain. Am I not a Friend ? TJne Amie f del ! 
but it is droll in French. Sarah Logan is twice as 
gay as I, but John does not love such vanities. Quant 
& moi,je les adore. It seems odd to have a colour to a 
religion. I wonder if drab goodness be better than 
red goodness. But what is wrong, Gainor? Yes, 
there is something. Hugh, thy collar is torn ; how 
careless of me not to have mended it ! ” 

Then my Aunt Gainor, saying nothing of my 
especial difficulty, and leaving out, too, her London 
news, related with remarkable clearness the reasons 
whjr my father should go overseas in the early fall and 
be gone for a year. The mother went on quietly shell- 
ing the peas, and losing no word. When Gainor had 
done, the bowl of peas was set aside, and my mother 
put back her curls, fixed her blue eyes on her sister- 
in-law, and was silent for a moment longer. At last 
she said, “It were best, for many reasons best. I see 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


it,” and she nodded her head affirmatively. “ But 

my son ? my Hugh ? ” 

“ You will have him with you at home. Every- 
thing will go on as usual, except that John will be 
amusing himself in London.” 

At this the little lady leaped up, all ablaze, so to 
speak. Never had I seen her so moved. “ What man- 
ner of woman am I, Gain or Wynne, that I should let 
my husband go alone on the seas, and here and there, 
without me? I will not have it. My boy is my 
boy ; God knows I love him ; but my husband comes 
first now and always, and thou art cruel to wish to 
part us.” 

“ But I never wished to part you. Go with him, 
Marie. God bless your sweet heart ! Leave me your 
boy j he cannot go. As God lives, I will take care 
of him ! ” 

Upon this the two women fell to weeping in each 
other's arms, a thing most uncommon for my Aunt 
Gainor. Then they talked it all over, as if John 
Wynne were not : when it would be, and what room 
I was to have, and my clothes, and the business, and 
so on— all the endless details wherewith the cunning 
affection of good women knows to provide comfort 
for us ; who are so apt to be unthankful. 

It amazed me to see how quickly it was settled, 
and still more to learn that my father did not oppose, 
but fell in with all their plans. 

Now back of all my weaknesses and folly I had, 
as I have said, some of the sense of honour and proud 
rectitude of my father, who strictly abided by his 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 91 


creed and his conscience. I returned no more that 
day to the counting-house, hut, saying to my mother 
I had business, I went off, with a hunk of bread, to 
my boat, and down the creek to the Delaware. I 
pulled out, past our old playground on the island, and 
far away toward the Jersey shore, and then, as the 
sun fell, drifted with the tide, noting the ruddy lines 
of the brick houses far away, and began to think. 

The scene I had gone through had made a deep 
impression. It has been ever so with me. Drink- 
ing, gaming, betting, and worse, never awakened my 
conscience or set me reflecting, until some sudden, 
unlooked-for thing took place, in which sentiment 
or affection was concerned. Then I would set to 
work to balance my books and determine my course. 
At such times it was the dear mother who spoke in 
me, and the father who resolutely carried out my 
decision. 

The boat drifted slowly with the flood-tide, and 1, 
lying on the bottom, fell to thought of what the day 
had brought me. The setting sun touched the single 
spire of Christ Church, and lit up yellow squares of 
light in the westward-looking windows of the rare 
farm-houses on the Jersey shore. Presently I was 
aground on the south end of Petty’s Island, where in 
after-years lay rotting the “Alliance,” the remnant ship 
of the greatest sea-fight that ever was since Grenville 
lay in the “ Revenge,” with the Spanish fleet about him. 
I came to ground amid the reeds and spatter-docks, 
where the water-lilies were just in bud. A noisy 
orchestra of frogs, with, as Jack said, fiddles and 


9 2 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


bassoons in their throats, ceased as I came, and 
pitched headlong off the broad green floats. Only 
one old fellow, with a great bass voice, and secure 
on the bank, protested loudly at intervals, like the 
owl in Mr. Gray’s noble poem, which my Jack loved 
to repeat. 

At last he— I mean my frog— whose monastery I 
had disturbed, so vexed me, who wanted stillness, that 
I smacked the water with the flat of an oar, which 
he took to be a hint, and ceased to lament my in- 
trusion. 

I was now well on to twenty, and old enough to 
begin at times to deal thoughtfully with events. A 
young fellow’s feelings are apt to be extreme, and 
even despotic, so that they rule the hour with such 
strength of sway as may be out of proportion to the 
cause. I might have seen that I had no just cause to 
blame myself, but that did not help me. The mood 
of distressful self-accusation was on me. I had no 
repeated impulse to smile at what, in my father’s 
conduct, had appeared to me a little while ago odd, 
and even amusing. I could never please him. I had 
grinned as I always did when risks were upon me. 
He never understood me, and I was tired of trying. 
What use was it to try ? I had one of those minutes 
of wishing to die, which come even to the wholesome 
young. I was well aware that of late I had not, 
on the whole, satisfied my conscience ; I knew this 
quite too well ; and now, as I lay in the boat dis- 
contented, I felt, as the youthful do sometimes feel, 
as if I were old, and the ending of things were near. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


It was but a mood, but it led up to serious thought. 
There are surely hours in youth when we are older 
than our years, and times in age when we are again 
young. Sometimes I wonder whether J ack was right, 
who used to say it may be we are never young or old, 
but merely seem to be so. This is the queer kind of 
reflection which I find now and then in Jack’s diary, 
or with which he used to puzzle me and please 
James Wilson. Of course a man is young or is old. 
and there ’s an end on ’t, as a greater man has said. 
But Jack has imagination, and I have none. 

I asked myself if I had done wrong in what I had 
said. I could not see that I had. With all my life- 
long fear of my father, I greatly honoured and re- 
spected him, finding in myself something akin to the 
unyielding firmness with which he stood fast when 
he had made up his mind. 

That this proud and steadfast man, so looked up to 
by every one, no matter what might be their convic- 
tions religious or political, should have been humili- 
ated by a woman, seemed to me intolerable; this 
was the chief outcome of my reflections. It is true 
I considered, but I fear lightly, my own misdoings. 
I made up my mind to do better, and then again the 
image of my father in his wrath and his shame came 
back anew. I turned the boat, and pulled steadily 
across the river to our landing. 

My father was in the counting-house in his own 
room, alone, although it was full late. “Well?” he 
said, spinning round on his high stool. “What is 
it ? Thou hast been absent, and no leave asked.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ Father,” I said, “if I was wrong this morning I 
wish to ask thy pardon.” 

“ Well, it is full time.” 

“ And I am come to say that I will take the punish- 
ment here and now. I did not run away from that.” 

“Very good,” he replied, rising. “Take off thy 
fine coat.” 

I wished he had not said this of my coat. I was 
in a heroic temper, and the sarcasm bit cruelly, but 
I did as I was bid. He went to the corner, and 
picked up a rattan cane. To whip fellows of nine- 
teen or twenty was not then by any means unusual. 
What would have happened I know not, nor ever 
shall. He said, “ There, I hear thy mother’s voice. 
Put on thy coat.” I hastened to obey him. 

The dear lady came in with eyes full of tears. 
“What is this, John, I hear? I have seen Gainor. 
I could not wait. I shall go with thee.” 

“ No,” he said ; “ that is not to be.” But she fell 
on his neck, and pleaded, and I, for my part, went 
away, not sorry for the interruption. As usual she 
had her way. 

I remember well this spring of ’73. It was early 
by some weeks, and everything was green and blos- 
soming in April. My father and mother were not to 
sail until the autumn, but already he was arranging 
for the voyage, and she as busily preparing or think- 
ing over what was needed. 

When next I saw my Aunt Gainor, she cried out, 
“ Sit down there, bad boy, and take care of my man- 
darin. He and my great bronze Buddha are my only 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 95 


counsellors. If I want to do a thing I ask Mr. Man- 
darin— he can only nod yes ; and if I want not to do 
a thing I ask Buddha, and as he can neither say no 
nor yes, I do as I please. What a wretch you are ! ” 

I said I could not see it ; and then I put my head 
in her lap, as I sat on the stool, and told her of my 
last interview with my father, and how for two days 
he had hardly so much as bade me good-night. 

“It is his way, Hugh,” said my aunt. “I am 
sorry; but neither love nor time will mend him. 
He is what his nature and the hard ways of Friends 
have made him.” 

I said that this was not all, nor the worst, and 
went on to tell her my latest grievance. Our family 
worship at home was, as usual with Friends in those 
days, conducted at times in total silence, and was 
spoken of by Friends as u religious retirement.” At 
other times, indeed commonly, a chapter of the Bible 
was read aloud, and after that my father would some- 
times pray openly. On this last occasion he took ad- 
vantage of the opportunity to dilate on my sins, and be- 
fore our servants to ask of Heaven that I be brought 
to a due sense of my iniquities. It troubled my 
mother, who arose from her knees in tears, and we?it 
out of the room, whilst I, overcome with anger, stood 
looking out of the window. My father spoke to her 
as she opened the door, but she made no answer, nor 
even so much as turned her head. It brought to my 
memory a day of my childhood, when my father 
was vexed because she taught me to say the Lord’s 
Prayer. He did not approve, and would have no set 


96 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


form of words taught me. My mother was angry 
too, and I remember my own amazement that any 
one should resist my father. 

When I had told my aunt of the indignity put 
upon me, and of the fading remembrance thus 
recalled, she said, “ John Wynne has not changed, 
nor will he ever.” She declared that, after all, it was 
her fault— to have treated me as if I were a man, and 
to have given me too much money. I shook my head, 
but she would have it she was to blame, and then said 
of a sudden, “ Are you in debt, you scamp ? Did John 
pray for me ? ” I replied that I owed no one a penny, 
and that she had not been remembered. She was 
glad I was not in debt, and added, “Never play un- 
less you have the means to pay. I have been very 
foolish. That uneasy woman, Bessy Ferguson, must 
needs tell me so. I could have slapped her. They 
will have thy sad case up in Meeting, I can tell thee.” 

“ But what have I done T ” I knew well enough. 

“ Tut ! you must not talk that way to me ; but it is 
my fault. Oh, the time I have had with your mother ! 
I am not fit, it seems, to be left to take care of you. 
They talk of leaving you with Abijah Hap worthy— 
sour old dog ! I wish you joy of him ! ” 

“Good heavens !” I exclaimed ; for among my aunt’s 
gay friends I had picked up such exclamatory phrases 
as, used at home, would have astonished my father. 

“ Rest easy,” said Mistress Wynne ; “ it is not to be. 
I have fought your battle, and won it. But I have 
had to make such promises to your father, and— woe 
is me !— to your mother, as will damn me forever if 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


you do not help me to keep them. I can fib to your 
father and not care a snap, but lie to those blue eyes 
I cannot.” 

“ I will try, Aunt Gainor j indeed I will try.” In 
deed, I did mean to. 

“ You must, you must. I am to be a sort of god- 
fm other-in-law to you, and renounce for you the world, 
1 he flesh, and the devil ; and that for one of our breed ! 
1 shall be like a sign-post, and never go the way I 
point. That was Bessy Fergusoms malice. Oh, I 
have suffered, I can tell you. It is I, and not you, that 
have repented.” 

“ But I will j I do.” 

“ That is all very well ; but I have had my whip- 
ping, and you got off yours.” 

“ What do you mean, aunt ? ” 

“ What do I mean ? Here came yesterday Sarah 
Fisher, pretty gay for a Quaker, and that solemn 
Master Savory, with his sweet, low voice like a nice 
girl’s tongue, and his geutle ways. And they are 
friends of thy people, who are distressed at thy go- 
ings on • and Nicholas Wain has seen thee with two 
sons of Belial in red coats, come out of the coffee- 
house last month at evening, singing songs such as 
are not to be described, and no better able to take 
care of yourself than you should be. They did think 
it well and kind — hang ’em, Hugh ! — to consider the 
matter with me. We considered it— we did, indeed. 
There be five people whose consciences I am to make 
you respect. And not one of them do I care for, 
but Mother Blue-eyes. But I must J I must ! It was 


98 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


all true, sir, what Friend Wain said; for you had 
reason enough left to come hither, and did I not put 
you to bed and send for Dr. Chovet, who grinned 
famously, and said, 1 Je comprends ,’ and went to call 
on your father on a hint from me, to declare you were 
enrhume , and threatened with I know not what ; in 
fact, he lied like a gentleman. You made a noble re- 
covery, and are a credit to the doctor. I hope you 
will pay the bill, and are ashamed.” 

I was, and I said so. 

“But that is not all. These dear Quakers were 
the worst. They were really sorry, and I had to put 
on my best manners and listen ; and now everybody 
knows, and you are the talk of the town. Those drab 
geese must out with the whole naughtiness, despite 
the company which came in on us, and here were 
Mr. Montresor and that ape Etherington grinning, 
and, worst of all, a charming young woman just come 
to live here with her aunt, and she too must have 
her say when the Quakers and the men were gone.” 

“ And what did she say ? ” I did not care much. 
“And what is her name ? ” 

“ Oh, she said the Quakers were rather outspoken 
people, and it was a pity, and she was sorry, because 
she knew you once, and you had taken her part at 
school.” 

“ At school ? ” 

“Yes. She is Darthea Peniston, and some kin of 
that Miss de Laneey, whom Sir William Draper will 
marry if he can.” 

“Darthea Peniston?” I said, and my thoughts 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 99 


went back to the tender little maid who wept when 
I was punished, and for whom I had revenged my- 
self on Master Dove. 

“ Quite a Spanish, beauty,” said my Aunt Wynne ; 
“ a pretty mite of a girl, and not more money than 
will clothe her, they say ; but the men mad about her. 
Come and see her to-morrow if you are sober.” 

“ O Aunt Gainor ! ” 

“Yes, sir. I hear Mr. Montresor has leave from 
Anthony Morris to invite you to 1 The Colony in 
Schuylkill’ to-morrow. It is well your father has 
gone to visit Mr. Yeates at Lancaster.” 

“ I shall behave myself, Aunt Gainor.” 

“ I hope so. The Fish House punch is strong.” 

I went home thinking of Miss Darthea Peniston, 
and filled with desire to lead a wiser life. It was full 
time. My aunt’s lavish generosity had, as I have said, 
given me means to live freely among the officers, 
who were, with some exceptions, a dissolute set. To 
be with them made it needful to become deceitful 
and to frame excuses, so that, when I was supposed 
to be at my aunt’s, or riding, I was free that past win- 
ter to go on sleighing-parties or to frequent taverns, 
pleased with the notice I got from men like Montre- 
sor and the officers of the Scotch Grays. 

I have dwelt not at all on these scenes of dissipa- 
tion. It is enough to mention them. My father was 
wrapped up in his business, and full of cares both 
worldly and spiritual ; for now Friends were becom- 
ing politically divided, and the meetings were long 
and sometimes agitated. 


I oo 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


My good mother was neither deceived nor uncon- 
cerned. She talked to me often, and in such a way 
as brings tears to my eyes even now to think of 
the pain I gave her. Alas ! it is our dearest who 
have the greatest power to wound us. I wept and 
promised, and went back to my husks and evil com- 
pany. 

I have no wish to conceal these things from my 
children. It is well that our offspring when young 
should think us angels; but it were as well that 
when they are older they should learn that we have 
been men of like passions with themselves, and have 
known temptation, and have fought, and won or lost, 
our battles with sin. It is one of the weaknesses of 
nations, as well as of children, that they come to 
consider their political fathers as saints. I smile 
when I think of the way people nowadays think of 
our great President, as of a mild genius, incapable 
of being moved to anger or great mirth, a man un- 
spotted of the world. They should have heard him 
at Monmouth, when Lee failed him in a time of peril, 
or seen him, as I have seen him, soberly merry over 
his wine with Knox. But some day you shall see 
him as my friend Jack and I saw him, and you will, 
I trust, think no worse of him for being 1 as human 
as he was just. 

The day of my more honest repentance was near, 
and I knew not that it was to be both terrible and 
of lasting value. I sometimes reflect upon the curi- 
ous conditions with which my early manhood was 
surrounded. Here was I, brought up in the strictest 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker ioi 

ways of a sect to which I do no injustice if I describe 
it as ascetic. At home I saw plain living, and no 
luxury, save in regard to food, which my father 
would have of the best money could buy. I was 
taught the extreme of non-resistance, and absolute 
simplicity as to dress and language. Amusements 
there were none, and my father read no books ex- 
cept such as dealt with things spiritual, or things 
commercial. At my aunt’s, and in the society I saw 
at her house, there were men and women who loved 
to dance, gamble, and amuse themselves. The talk 
was of bets, racing, and the like. To be drunk was 
a thing to be expected of officers and gentlemen. 
To avenge an insult with sword or pistol was the 
only way to deal with it. My father was a passive 
Tory, my aunt a furious Whig. What wonder that 
I fell a victim to temptation ? 


VII 


HE next day, having seen to matters of 
business in the morning, I set out after 
dinner in my finest clothes to join my 
friends. I fear that I promised my mo- 
ther to be careful, and to be at home 
by nine o’clock. 

I met Captain Montresor at the London Coffee- 
house, at High and Front streets, and, having taken 
a chaise, drove out through the woods to the upper 
ferry, and thence to Egglesfield, the seat of Mr. War- 
ner, from whom the club known then as “ The Colony 
in Schuylkill ” held under a curious tenure the acre 
or two of land where they had built a log cabin and 
founded this ancient and singular institution. Here 
were met Anthony Morris, who fell at Trenton, Mr. 
Tench Francis, sometime Attorney-General, Mifflin, 
and that Galloway who later became a Tory, with 
Mr. Willing, and others of less note, old and young. 
I was late for the annual ceremony of presenting 
three fish to Mr. Warner, this being the condition on 
which the soil was held, but I saw the great pewter 
dish with the Penn arms, a gift from that family, on 
which the fish were offered. 

It was a merrv and an odd party 3 for, clad in white 
102 




Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 103 


aprons, the apprentices, so called, cooked the dinner 
and served it ; and the punch and Madeira went round 
the table often enough, as the “king’s health” was 
drunk, and “ success to trade,” and “ the ladies, God 
bless them ! ” 

I liked it well, and, with my aunt’s warning in 
mind, drank but little, and listened to the talk, which 
was too free at times, as was the bad custom of that 
day, and now and then angiy; for here were some 
who were to die for their country, and some who were 
to fail it in the hour of need. 

Despite my English friends, and thanks to Mr. 
Wilson and my Aunt Gainor, I was fast becoming an 
ardent Whig, so that the talk, in which I had small 
share, interested me deeply. At last, about seven, the 
pipes having been smoked and much punch taken, 
the company rose to go, some of them the worse for 
their potations. 

We drove into town, and at the coffee-house put 
up and paid for our chaise. I said good-by to Mr. 
Montresor, who, I think, had been charged by Miss 
Wynne to look after me, when a Captain Small, 
whom I knew, stopped me. He was well known as 
one of the most reckless of the younger officers, a 
stout, short man, rather heroically presented long 
afterward, in Trumbull’s picture of the “Death of 
Warren,” as trying to put aside the bayonets. As I 
paused to reply, I saw Jack Warder standing on the 
other side of the street. He nodded, smiling, and 
made as if he were about to cross over. He had 
many times talked with me seriously this winter, 


104 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


until I had become vexed, and told him he was a 
milksop. After this I saw little of him. Now I was 
annoyed at the idea that he was spying upon my 
actions, and therefore, like a fool, merely nodded, 
and, turning my back on him, heard Mr. Small say : 
“You must not go yet, Mr. Wynne. We are to 
have supper upstairs, and you will like to see a gen- 
tleman of your name, Mr. Arthur Wynne, of the Scots 
Grays. He tells me he is of distant kin to you.” 

Montresor said I had better go home, but Ether- 
ington asked if I wanted my bottle and nurse ; and 
so at last, partly from pride and partly out of curi- 
osity to see this other Wynne, I said I would remain 
long enough to welcome the gentleman and take a 
social glass. When we entered the room upstairs, 
I found a supper of cold meats and, as usual, punch 
and liquors. There were two dozen or more officers 
in undress jackets, their caps and swords in the cor- 
ners, and also two or three of the younger men of 
the Tory or doubtful parties. 

Several officers called to me to sit with them, for I 
was a favourite, and could troll a catch or sing parts 
fairly well. My companion, Small, said, “This way, 
Wynne,” and, followed by Montresor and the colonel 
of the Scots Grays, whose name I forget, we moved 
to a table remote from the door. Here Montresor, 
pushing past Small, said : « Captain Wynne, I have 
the honour to present to you Mr. Hugh Wynne, one 
of your family, I hear.” 

Upon this there rose to greet me a gentleman in 
the undress uniform of the Grays. He was tall and 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 105 


well built, but not so broad or strong as we other 
Wynnes; certainly an unusually handsome man. 
He carried his head high, was very erect, and had 
an air of distinction, for which at that time I should 
have had no name. I may add that he was dressed 
with unusual neatness, and very richly ; all of which, 
I being but a half-formed young fellow, did much 
impress me. 

He looked at me so steadily as we came near that 
it gave me a rather unpleasant impression ; for those 
who do not meet the eye at all are scarcely less dis- 
agreeable than those who too continually watch you, 
as was this man's way. I was rather young to be a 
very careful observer of men’s faces, but I did see that 
Captain Wynne’s bore traces of too convivial habits. 

As I recall his dark, regular features, I remember, 
for we met often afterward, that the lower part of 
his face was too thin, and that in repose his mouth 
was apt not to remain fully shut, a peculiarity, as I 
now think, of persons of weak will. 

My first feeling of there being something unpleas- 
ing about him soon left me. He rose, and, with gra- 
ciousness and the ease and manner of one used to 
the best society, moved around the table and took 
my hand. 

“ I am but a far-away kinsman,” he said, “ but I 
am charmed to make your acquaintance. You are 
like the picture of old Sir Robert at Wyncote, where 
I was last year for the otter-hunting.” 

I greeted him warmly. “ And art thou living at 
Wyncote ? ” I asked rather awkwardly. 


io6 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ No, I do not live at home. I am bnt a cadet, 
and yours is the elder branch.” Then he added gaily, 
“ I salute you, sir, as the head of our old house. Your 
very good health ! ” And at this, with a charm of man- 
ner I have seen but rarely, he put a hand on my 
shoulder, and added, “We must be friends, Cousin 
Wjmne, and I must know your father, and above all 
Mistress Wynne. Montresor never ceases talking of 
her.” 

I said it would give me pleasure to present him ; 
then, delighted to hear of Wyncote, I sat down, and, 
despite a warning look from Montresor, began to take 
wine with this newly found kinsman. 

Mr. Arthur Wynne was a man fully ten years my 
senior. He had served in the Guards, and in the 
Indies, and was full of stories of court and camp 
and war, such as every young fellow of spirit likes 
to hear. 

Captain Montresor lingered awhile, and then, find- 
ing it vain to persist in his purpose, gave it up, and 
fell to talking with one of his fellow-officers, while 
I went on questioning my cousin as to the Wynnes 
to their uttermost generation. Either he cared little 
about them, or he knew little, for he seemed much 
to prefer to tell queer stories about the court ladies, 
and my Lord Chesterfield’s boor of a son, who had 
such small manners and such a large appetite, and 
of Sir Guy Carleton, whom he was about to join in 
Canada. He advised me to get a pair of colours as 
my aunt had once desired, and seemed surprised 
when I paraded my friend Mr. Wilson’s opinions as 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 107 


my own, and talked of taxation and tlie oppression 
under which commerce had to he carried on. In fact, 
as to this I knew something ; but in this, as in other 
matters, he deferred to me as one does to a well- 
informed talker of one’s own age, now setting me 
right with admirable courtesy, and now cordially 
agreeing. 

What with his evident desire to be friendly, and 
the wine I was taking, I fell an easy prey to one who 
rarely failed to please when he was so minded. Too 
well amused to reflect that the hours were swiftly 
passing, I sat, taking glass after glass mechanically. 
As the night went on we had more punch, and the 
dice began to rattle on the tables, despite the land- 
lord’s remonstrance, who feared to fall into the hands 
of the law and lose his licence. But a lively major 
called out that here was licence enough, and hustled 
him out of the room, calling for more rum-punch, 
and stronger. 

Meanwhile the smoke grew thick and thicker. 
Here and there a song broke out, and the clink of 
coin and the rattle of dice went on. Then, when at 
last Montresor came to our table and said he was 
going, and would I come too, I rose, and, bidding 
my kinsman good-by, went with the captain. I heard 
him swear as he found the door locked. No one 
seemed to know who had the key, and as for me, not 
ill-pleased, and past feeling regret, I turned back and 
stood over a table where some officers were throwing 
a main. 

Then I saw in a corner a poor fellow who used to 


io8 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


be an usher at the academy, and who, having taken 
to drink, had lost his place. Now he was a sort of 
servitor in the coffee-house, and had gotten locked 
up in the room and could not escape. He had taken 
refuge in a corner at a deserted table, and, sitting 
unnoticed, was solacing himself with what was left 
of a bowl of punch. A sense of not altogether maudlin 
pity came upon me, and I went over and sat down 
beside him. No one took any heed of us. The air 
was heavy with pipe-smoke, oaths, mad catches of 
song, clink of glasses, and rattle of dice noisily cast, 
with here and there a toast cried ; so that it was hard 
to see for the smoke, or to hear a man speak. 

u Why, Savoy ! How earnest thou here ?” I said. 

“ The devil fetched me, I guess.” 

He was far gone in liquor. “ I am like Mr. Sterne’s 
starling : ‘ I can’t get out.’ Ever read Mr. Sterne’s— 
what is it?— oh, his ‘Sentimental Journey’?” 

Here was one worse than I, and I felt inclined to 
use what Friends call a precious occasion, a way 
being opened. 

“ This is a sad business, Savoy,” I said. 

“ Dre’ful,” he returned. “ Facilis descensus taverni. 
No use to talk to me. I am tired of life. I am going 
to die. Some men shoot themselves, some like the 
rope, and some cold water. You know what Bishop 
what’s-his-name— I mean Jeremy Taylor — says about 
ways to die : 1 None please me.’ But drink is the best. 
I mean to drink myself dead— dead— d— dead,” and 
here he fell on to my shoulder. Letting him down 
easily, I loosed his neckerchief, and stood beside him, 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 109 


pitiful and shocked. Then in a moment I felt that 
I was drunk. The room whirled, and with an effort 
I got to the open window, stumbling over legs of men, 
who looked up from their cards and cursed me. 

Of what chanced after this I knew for a time but 
little, until I was in one instant sobered. This was 
an hour later, and nigh to twelve o’clock. What 
took place I heard from others ; and, as it concerns 
a turning-point in my life, I shall try to relate it as 
if I myself had been conscious all the while. 

The better for air, I went over to a table in the 
centre of the room not far from the door. Leaning 
heavily on Captain Small’s shoulder, I threw on the 
table the last gold joe my aunt had given me with her 
final lesson in morals. 

“ Best in three, Etherington.” 

“ Take it,” he cried. 

I threw double sixes, he threes, and I deuce ace. 
Then he cast some numbers as good. Certainly the 
devil meant to have me. I threw a third time j a six 
and a five turned up, and he an ace and a four. I 
had won. “ Double or quits,” I said ; “ one throw.” 
I won again, and at this I went on until the pile of 
gold grew beneath my eyes, amid laughter, curses, 
and all manner of vileness. Presently I heard the 
colonel exclaim, “This won’t do, gentlemen,” and I 
felt some one trying to draw me from the table. It 
was Captain Wynne. I cried out, “ Hands off ! no 
liberties with me ! I am the head of thy house ; 
thou art only a cadet.” He laughed as I pushed him 
aside. 


iio Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

“ You said double or quits,” cried the stout major. 
How he got into the game I knew not. 

“ It is a mere boy ! for shame ! ” cried the colonel, 
“ I forbid it.” 

“lama gentleman,” I said. “ Thou canst order thy 
officers ; thou canst not order me,” and as I spoke I cast 
so hard that I crushed the box. I heard some one cry, 
“ A damn pretty Quaker ! By George, he has lost! A 
clean hundred pounds ! ” Even in this drunken revel 
there was a pause for a moment. I was, after all, but 
a tipsy lad of twenty, and some were just not far 
enough gone to feel that it might look to others an 
ugly business. The colonel said something to Major 
Mile wood as to disrespect, I hardly know what ; for 
at this moment there was a loud knocking at the door. 
In the lull that followed I heard the colonel’s voice. 

Then the tumult broke out anew. “ By Jove, it is 
a woman ! ” cried Wynne. “I hear her. Wine and 
women ! A guinea to a guinea she ’s pretty ! ” 

“ Done ! ” cried some one. 

“Here ’s the key,” said the major; “let ’s have 
her in.” 

“ Place aux dames” hiccoughed a cornet. 

The colonel rose, but it was too late. Wynne, 
seizing the key, unlocked the door and threw it wide 
open, as my mother, followed by Jack Warder, en- 
tered the room, and stood still a moment, dazed. 

Captain Wynne, leering and unsteady, caught at 
her waist, exclaiming, “ By George ! she might be 
younger, but I ’ve won. A toast ! a toast ! A Quaker, 
by George ! ” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


1 1 1 


Whether I was sobered or not, I know not. I can 
only say that of a sudden I was myself, and strangely 
quiet. I saw the dear lady, brave, beautiful, and 
with her curls falling about her neck, as she shrank 
back from the man’s touch. 

“ Come, Hugh,” she said. 

“Yes, mother,” I said ; “but first—” and I struck 
Captain Wynne full in the face, so that, unprepared 
as he was, he fell over a table and on to the floor 

Every one started up. There was instant silence 

In a moment he was on his feet, and, like myself, 
another man. Turning, he said, with amazing coolness, 
wiping the blood away, for I was strong, and had hit 
hard, “ Madam, I beg your pardon ; we have been 
behaving like beasts, and I am fitly punished. As to 
you, Mr. Wynne, you are a boy, and have undertaken 
to rough it with men. This shall go no further.” 

“ It shall go where I please,” I cried. 

“No, no ; Hugh, Hugh ! ” said my mother. 

“We will talk it over to-morrow,” said the cap- 
tain; and then, turning, “I mean, gentlemen, that 
this shall stop here. If any man thinks I am wrong, 
let him say so. I shall know how to settle accounts 
with him.” 

“ No, no,” said the colonel ; “ you are right, and if 
any officer thinks otherwise, I too am at his service.” 
In the silence which came after he added, “ Permit 
me, madam ;” and offering his arm to my mother, 
we following, they went downstairs, J ack and I after 
them, and so into the street and the reproachful calm 
of the starlit April night. 



VEN so far away as now,” says Jack, 
writing in after-days, “it grieves me 
to think of that winter, and of this 
mad scene at the London Coffee-house. 
When I saw Hugh go in with the 
officers, I waited for an hour, and then went away. 
Returning later, I learned that he was still upstairs. 
I felt that if I stayed until he came forth, although 
he might not be in a way to talk to me, to know that 
I had waited so long might touch him and help him 
to hear me with patience. I walked to and fro 
until the clock had struck twelve, fearful and troubled 
like a woman. Sometimes I think I am like a woman 
in certain ways, but not in all. 

“ There were many people who loved Hugh, but, 
save his mother, none as I did. He had a serious 
kindliness in his ways, liking to help people, and for 
me at certain times and in certain crises a reassur- 
ing directness of swift dealing with matters in hand, 
most sustaining to one of my hesitating nature. His 
courage was instinctive, mine the result of obedi- 
ence to my will, and requiring a certain resolute effort. 

“I think of him always as in time of peril, throw- 
ing his head up and his shoulders back, and smiling, 
112 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 1 1 3 


with very wide-open eyes, like his mother’s, but a 
deeper blue. The friendship of young men has often 
for a partial basis admiration of physical force, and 
Hugh excelled me there, although I have never been 
considered feeble or awkward except among those 
of another sex, where always I am seen, I fear, to 
disadvantage. 

u Just after twelve I saw a woman coming hastily 
up Front street. As she came to a pause in the light 
which streamed from the open door, I knew her for 
Madam Marie, as she had taught me to call her. She 
wore a caleche hood, fallen back so that I saw her 
hair, half tumbled from under the thin gauze cap 
worn on the top of the head by most Quakers. She 
was clad quite too slightly, and had for wrap only a 
thin, gray silk shawl. 

111 Mon Dieu!’ she exclaimed, 'I had to come. 
Jack, is he here? 17 faut que je monte , I must go 
upstairs.’ In excitement she was apt to talk French, 
and then to translate. 1 Let me go/ said I ; but she 
cried out, ‘No, no ! come ! 9 

u There were many rough folks without, and others 
called together by the noise above, and no wonder. I 
said, ‘ Come in ; I will go up with thee.’ She pushed 
me aside, and, with staring eyes, cried, ‘ Ou est Ves- 
calier ?’ As we went through the coffee-room, the 
loungers looked at her with surprise. She followed 
me without more words, ran by me on the stairs, and 
in a moment beat fiercely on the door, crying , 1 Ouvrez! 
open! quick !’ Then there was that madhouse scene.” 

And this was how it came about, as Jack has here 


1 14 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


told, that, still hot and angry, hut much sobered, I, 
her son, walked beside my mother till we came to our 
door, and Jack left us, saying: 

“ Wilt thou see me to-morrow ? ” 

I said, “Yes. God bless thee ! Thou art the real 
son,” and we entered. 

Then it was sweet to see her ; she said no word of 
reproach except, u U ne faut pas me donner ton baiser 
du soir. No, no j I am not to be kissed.” And so I 
went, sorrowful and still dizzy, up to my sleepless 
couch. 

At the first gray light of dawn I rose, and was soon 
away half a mile from shore in my boat. As I came 
up from my first plunge in the friendly river, and 
brushed the water from my eyes, I do assure you the 
world seemed different. The water was very cold, 
but I cared nothing for that. I went home another 
and a better man, with hope and trust and self -repose 
for company. That hour in the water at early morn 
forever after seemed to me a mysterious separation 
between two lives, like a mighty baptismal change. 
Even now I think of it with a certain awe. 

I pulled home as the sun rose, and lingered about 
until our servants came in for the early worship of 
the day. Soon I had the mother’s kiss, and under- 
went a quick, searching look, after which she nodded 
gaily, and said, “ Est-ce que tout est Men, mon fils f Is all 
well with thee, my son ? ” I said, “Yes— yes.” I heard 
her murmur a sweet little prayer in her beloved French 
tongue. Then she began to read a chapter. I looked 
up amazed. It was the prodigal’s story. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker - 115 

I stood it ill, thinking it liard that she should have 
made choice of that reproachful parable. I stared 
sideways out at the stream and the ships, but lost no 
word, as, with a voice that broke now and then, she 
read the parable to its close. After this should have 
come prayer, silent or spoken ; but, to my surprise, 
she said, u We will not pray this morning,” and we 
went in to breakfast at once. 

As for me, I could not eat. I went out alone to 
the garden and sat down. I knew she would come 
to me soon. It seemed to me a long while. I sat on 
the grass against a tree, an old cherry, as I remem- 
ber, and waited. 

I can see her coming toward me under the trees, 
grave and quiet and sweet. The great oeauty, Sarah 
Lukens, who married in mid-war the gallant Lennox, 
used to say of my mother that she put some sugar 
into all her moods ; and it w r as true. I have seen her 
angry. I had rather have faced my father in his 
wildest rage than her. Why was she not angry now ? 
She had vast reason for displeasure. After men have 
become wise enough to understand woman, I protest 
there will remain the mother, whom no man will ever 
comprehend. 

“What a beautiful day, Hugh! And you had a 
good swim ? was it cold ? Why may not girls swim ? 
I should love it.” 

Next she was beside me on the grass, my head on 
her bosom, saying, with a little sob, as if she had done 
some wrong thing : 

“ I— I did not choose it, dear ; indeed I did not. It 


1 1 6 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


came in order with the day, as your father reads ; 
and I— I did not think until I began it, and then I 
would not stop. It is strange for it to so chance. I 
wonder where that, prodigal’s mother was all the 
while ? Oh, you are better than that wicked, wicked 
prodigal. I never would have let him go at all— 
never if I could have helped it, I mean. Mon Dieu ! 
I think we women were made only for prayer or for 
forgiveness ; we can stop no sin, and when it is done 
can only cry, ‘ Come back ! come back ! I love you ! ’ ” 

If I cried on that tender heart, and spoke no word, 
and was but a child again, I am sure that it was of 
all ways the best to tell her that never again should 
she be hurt by any act of mine. 

“ See, there is Judith at the door, wondering where 
I am,” she said, “and what is to be for dinner. I 
must go and get ready the fatted calf. Ah, I would 
not have left one alive. Yes, yes, I can jest, because 
I am no more afraid, mon fils , nor ever shall be.” 

Upon this I would have said something of my 
deep shame, and of the swine among whom I had 
wallowed. 

“No,” she cried; “c’est ftni, mon cJier. It is all 
over. The swine will eat alone hereafter.” She 
would hear no more, only adding, “As for me, I 
want to be told once how brave I was. Jack said 
so ; indeed he did. I was brave, was I not?” 

“ Don’t, dear mother ! please ! I cannot bear it.” 
Somehow this plea, so childlike, to be praised for 
what must have cost so much, quite overcame me. 

“Yes, yes,” she said; “I understand thee, and I 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 1 17 


shall always. How strong thou art, mon fils ! I was 
proud of thee, even in that sty of pigs in red coats. 
And he behaved like a gentleman, and hath wondrous 
self-command. I would see him again ; who is he ? ” 

I told her his name. 

u Que (test drole. That is curious. Thy cousin ! 
No doubt we shall see him to-day, and thy father. I 
shall tell him all— all. He must know.” 

“Yes, he must know,” I said; “but I will tell him 
myself.” 

“ He will be angry, but that is part of thy punish- 
ment.” 

Then I told her, too, I had lost an hundred pounds, 
as I believed, and she said : 

“ That is, after all, the least. There are pearls of 
my sister’s I never w ear. Thy aunt must take them 
and pay this debt. Go now to thy business as if 
nothing had happened, and I will send thee the pearls 
by Tom. No, no ; it is to be as I say ; I must have 
my way.” 

What could I do? I kissed her, and we parted. 
I made no promises, and she asked for none. I 
like to think of how, after all, I left with her this 
sense of quiet trust. 

I have said that the daily march of events never 
so influenced my life as did critical occasions. This 
was surely one of them. I do not now regret the 
knowledge of a baser world which I thus acquired. 
It has been of use to me, and to some with whose lives 
I have had to deal. 

Of the wrath of my father, when I humbly con 


1 1 8 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 


fessed my sins, it is not needful to speak at length. 
For business calamities he was ready enough, and 
lacked not decision $ but in this matter he was, as 
I could see, puzzled. He strode up and down, a great 
bulk of a man, opening and shutting his hands, a 
trick he had in his rare moments of doubt or of 
intense self-repression. 

“ I know not what to do with thee,” he said over 
and over ; “and thou didst strike the man, thy cousin ? 
Well, well! and hurt him, I am told? And he did 
not return the blow ! ” 

I had not said so. Thus I knew that other busy 
tongues 1 had been at work. For my life, I could not 
see whether he looked upon the blow as my worst 
iniquity, or deep in his heart was hardly grieved at it. 

“ Thou didst strike him ? I must consider of thee ; 
I must take counsel. Go ! thou wilt bring my gray 
hairs in sorrow to the grave.” And so I left him, 
still striding to and fro, with ever the same odd 
movement of his hands. He took counsel, indeed, 
and for me and for him the most unwise that ever 
a troubled man could have taken. It was some days 
before this unpleasant scene took place, and mean- 
while I had seen my aunt. 

She was taking snuff furiously when I entered, 
and broke out at once, very red in the face, and 
walking about in a terrible rage. My mother used 
to say that the first thing one saw of my Aunt 
Gainor was her nose. It had been quite too much 
of a nose for the rest of her face, until gray hair and 
some change wrought by time in the architecture of 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 1 1 9 


her fine head helped to make it more in harmony 
with the rest of her features. Somehow it arrested 
my attention now, and Heaven knows why it seemed 
to me more odd than ever. 

“ This is a fine repentance indeed ! What are you 
staring at, you fool ? Here has been that wild curlew, 
Bess Ferguson, with an awful tale of how you have 
gambled and lost an hundred pounds, and half killed 
an unlucky cousin. Who the deuce is the man ? A 
nice godchild you are ! A proper rage I am in, and 
Dr. Rush tells me I am never to get excited ! You 
should hear Mrs. Galloway j duels and murder are the 
least of her talk ; and, upon my word, you know no 
more of the small sword than of —I know net what. I 
must send you to Pike for lessons. Whev is it to be ? ” 
“My dear aunt,” I cried, “I wish all these Tory 
cats of yours were dead ! ” 

At this she broke into laughter, and sat down. 

“ Cats ! and did n't they miaow ! That sweet girl- 
boy, Jack Warder, has been here too ; sent. I suppose, 
by that dear Jesuit, your mother. How he blushes ! 
I hear you behaved like a gentleman even in your 
cups. I like the lad ; I did not use to. He is a manly 
miss. Sit down, and tell me all about it. Bless me ! 
how hot I am ! ” 

Upon this I knew I had won my battle, and went 
on to tell the whole story. When I produced my 
pearls, of which I was horribly ashamed, she broke 
out anew, declaring we were all mere traders, and 
did we think her a pawnbroker ? and ended by giving 
me an hundred pounds, and bidding me to be care- 


120 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


ful and pay at once, as it was a debt of honour. u As 
to the pearls, let Madam Marie keep them for thy 
wife.” 

Thus ended a sorry business. It was to be told, 
and I have told it ; but none, not even my mother 
or Jack, knew how deep a mark it left upon my 
character, or how profoundly it affected my life. 

My friend Jack shall say the requiescat of this 
chapter of my life, which I have so unwillingly re- 
corded. There was one more thing needed to com- 
plete its misery. Says Jack : 

“Hugh Wynne and I fell apart this last winter 
of 1 72 and 73. It was my fault.” This I do not 
understand. “Came then that hideous night in 
April, and all the rest*; and Hugh I saw the day 
after, and begged him to forgive me because I had 
so easily deserted him. I took him later a kind 
message from Mr. James Wilson j for our small city 
knew it all. Friends looked at him as one disgraced, 
except Friend Rupert Forest, who, to my amuse- 
ment, seemed to enjoy to hear the whole story, say- 
ing, 1 Alas ! alas ! ’ and yet, as I saw, far more pleased 
than distressed. It brought to my mind the battle 
he had set us to fight out when we were boys. For 
a week or two Hugh was dispirited, but after that, 
when the colonel had called, and his cousin, Arthur 
Wynne, began to be more and more with him, he 
took heart, and faced our little world, and would let 
no one, except myself, say a word to him of the time 
of his downfall ; this I think I never did, save per- 
haps once, and that long after. 


/ 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


i 21 


“ There was no need to preach. Converted devils 
make the best saints. I never was as good as Hugh, 
because I lacked courage to be wicked. Hugh was 
no saint, but he drank no more for a long while, and 
was ever after moderate. As to cards and dice, it 
was much the same.” 

What Jack has here written is all nonsense. He 
was a better man than T and never was nor could 
have been a bad one. 


TX 


HAVE said that one event had to be re- 
corded before I completed the story of 
that episode of which I was weary of 
hearing. My father— and it was against 
all his habits in regard to most matters 
—reminded me almost daily of my misdeeds. He 
hoped I did not drink any more, and he would even 
look at the square flasks on the shelf to see, as I 
suspected, if they had been used. To be prayed for 
was worst of all, and this he did more than once. 
It was all of it unwise, and but for my mother I 
should have been even more unhappy. I can see 
now that my father was this while in distress, feeling 
that he must do something, and not knowing what 
to do. 

In his business life there had always been a way 
opened, as Friends say. He did not see that what 
I needed was what it was not in his nature to give, 
and thus it came about that we drew apart, and per- 
haps neither then nor at any later time were, or could 
ever have been, in the kindlier relation which makes 
the best of friendships that of the grown-up son with 
the elderly father. 

At last, after a month or more, when it was far 
122 



Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


123 


on in June, he ceased to trouble me, and to walk up 
and down, opening and shutting his hands, as he 
recounted my sins. He had reached an unfortunate 
decision, of which I was soon to feel the results. 

In the mean time my cousin, Mr. Arthur Wynne, 
had come into very close intimacy with all our family 
circle. As he had much to do with my later life, it 
is well to return a little, and to detail here what fol- 
lowed after the night of my mother’s visit to the 
coffee-house. 

Next day, in the evening, came the colonel of the 
' Scots Grays, and desired to see me in the sitting- 
room, my father being still in Lancaster. 

“Mr. Wynne,” he said, “Captain Wynne has 
asked me to call in reference to that unhappy busi- 
ness of last night. He begs to make his excuses 
to Mrs. Wynne in this letter, which may I ask 
you to deliver? And after this action on his part 
I trust you will see your way to regret the blow you 
struck.” 

I was quiet for a moment, feeling that I must be 
careful what answer I made. “ I cannot feel sorry,” 
I said ; “ I do not regret it.” 

“ That is a pity, Mr. Wynne. You should remem- 
ber that Mr. Arthur Wynne could not have known 
who the lady was. A blow is a thing no gentle- 
man can, as a rule, submit to { but this has been dis- 
cussed by Sir William Draper and myself, and we 
feel that Mr. Arthur Wynne cannot challenge a boy 
of eighteen.” 

u I am twenty,” I replied. 


124 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ Pardon me— of twenty, who is his cousin. That 
is the real point I would make. You have the best 
of it. You were right, quite right ; but, by St. George, 
you are a hard hitter! Mr. Wynne would have 
come in person, but he is hardly fit to be seen, 
and a sign-painter is just now busy painting his eye- 
lids and cheek, so as to enable him to appear out 
of doors.” 

The colonel treated me with the utmost respect, 
and, as a young fellow naturally would be, I was 
embarrassed more than a little, but not at all dissat- 
isfied with the condition of my cousin. I said awk- 
wardly that if he was willing to forget it I supposed 
I ought to be. 

“I think so,” said the colonel. “Suppose you 
leave it with me, and in a day or two talk it over 
with him. Indeed, he is a most charming gentleman, 
and a worthy member of a good old house.” 

I said I would leave it with the colonel, and upon 
this he said, “ Good-by, and come and dine with the 
mess some day, but don’t hit any more of us and 
so, laughing, he went aw r ay, leaving me flattered, but 
with the feeling that somehow he had gotten the bet- 
ter of me. 

My mother declared it was a beautiful letter, writ 
prettily, but ill-spelled (neither George the king nor 
our own George could spell well). She would not 
let me see it. I did years afterward. In it he spoke 
of me as a boy, and she was cunning enough to know 
that I should not like that. 

It was a week before we saw Mr. Arthur Wynne, 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 125 


My father had meanwhile vented his first wrath on 
me, and I was slowly getting over the strong sense of 
disgust, shame, contrition, and anger, and had set- 
tled down earnestly to my work. I hardly recognised 
the man who came in on us after supper, as my 
mother and I sat in the orchard, with my father in a 
better humour than of late, and smoking a churchwar- 
den, which, you may like to know, was a long clay 
pipe. The smoke sailed peacefully up, as I sat look- 
ing at its blue smoke-rings. How often since have 
I seen them float from the black lips of cannon, and 
thought of my father and his pipe ! 

We discussed the state of trade, and now and then 
I read aloud bits from the Boston “ Packet” of two 
weeks back, or my mother spoke of their September 
voyage, and of what would be needed for it, a voyage 
being looked upon as a serious affair in those times. 

“I found your doors hospitably open,” said the 
captain, appearing, “and the servant said I should find 
you here ; so I have taken my welcome for granted, 
and am come to make my most humble excuses to 
Mrs. Wynne.” 

We all rose as he drew near, my mother saying 
in my ear as he approached, “ It is Arthur Wynne. 
Now, Hugh, take care ! ” 

This newly found cousin was, like all of us, tall, 
but not quite so broad as we other Wynnes. He 
was of swarthy complexion from long service in the 
East, and had black hair, not fine, but rather coarse. 
I noticed a scar on his forehead. He shook hands, 
using his left hand, because, as I learned, of awkward- 


126 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


ness from an old wound. But with his left he was 
an expert swordsman, and, like left-handed swords- 
men, the more dangerous. 

“We are glad to see thee, Cousin Wynne,” said 
my mother. 

Seeing the marks of my handiwork still on his 
cheek, 1 took his greeting with decent cordiality, and 
said, “Sit down; wilt thou smoke a pipe, Cousin 
Arthur 1 ” 

He said he did not smoke, and set himself, with 
the address of a man used to a greater world than 
ours, to charm those whom no doubt he considered 
to be quite simple folk. In a few minutes the un- 
pleasantness of the situation was over. He and my 
father were at one about politics, and I wisely held 
my peace. He let fall a discreet sentence or two 
about the habits of soldiers, and his own regrets, 
and then said, laughing : 

“ Your son is not quite of your views as a Friend 
in regard to warfare.” 

“ My son is a hasty young man,” said my father, 
and I felt my mother’s touch on my arm. 

Our cousin was in no way upset by this. He said, 
“No, no, cousin ; he is young, but not hasty. I was 
fitly dealt with. We are hot-blooded people, we 
Wynnes. The ways of Friends are not our ways of 
dealing with an injury; and it was more— I wish to 
say so— it was an insult. He was right.” 

“ There is no such thing as insult in the matter,” 
said my father. “We may insult the great Master, 
but it is not for man to resent or punish.” 


Hug’h Wynne: Free Quaker 127 


“ I fear as to that we shall continue to differ.” He 
spoke with the utmost deference. “Do you go to Wyn- 
cote ? I hear you are for England in the autumn.” 

“No; I shall he too full of business. Wyncote 
has no great interest for me.” 

“Indeed? It might perhaps disappoint you— a 
tumble-down old house, an embarrassed estate. My 
brother will get but a small income when it falls to 
him. My father fights cocks and dogs, rides to 
hounds, and, I grieve to say, drinks hard, like all our 
Welsh squires.” 

I was surprised at his frank statement. My mother 
watched him curiously, with those attentive blue eyes, 
as my father returned : 

“ Of a certainty, thou dost not add to my induce- 
ments to visit Wyncote. I should, I fear, be sadly 
out of place.” 

“Iam afraid that is but too true, unless your head 
is better than mine. We are a sad set, we Wynnes. 
All the prosperity, and I fear much of the decency 
of the family, crossed the ocean long ago.” 

“Yet I should like to see Wyncote,” said I. “I 
think thou didst tell me it is not thy home.” 

“ No ; a soldier can hardly be said to have a home ; 
and a younger brother, with a tough father alive, 
and an elder brother on an impoverished estate, must 
needs be a wanderer.” 

“ But we shall make thee welcome here,” said my 
father, with grave kindness. “We are plain people, 
and live simply; but a Wynne should always find, 
as we used to say here, the latch-string outside.” 


128 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Witli a little more talk of the Wynnes, the captain, 
declining to remain longer, rose, and, turning to me, 
said, 11 1 hear. Cousin Hugh, that you refused to say 
that you were sorry for the sharp lesson you gave me 
the other night. I have made my peace with your 
mother.” 

“ I shall see that my son behaves himself in future. 
Thou hast heard thy cousin, Hugh ? ” 

I had, and I meant to make it up with him, but my 
father’s effort as a peacemaker did not render my 
course the more easy. Still, with the mother-eyes 
on me, I kept my temper. 

“ I was about to say thou hast done all a man can 
do,” said I. 

“ Then let us shake hands honestly,” he replied, 
“and let bygones be bygones.” 

I saw both my parents glance at me. “ I should 
be a brute if I did not say yes, and mean it, too ; but 
I cannot declare that I am sorry, except for the whole 
business.” And w*ith this I took his left hand, a 
variety of the commonplace ceremony which always, 
to my last knowledge of Captain Wynne, affected me 
unpleasantly. 

He laughed. “ They call us in Merionethshire the 
i wilful Wynnes. You will find me a good friend if 
you don’t want the things I want. I am like most 
younger brothers, inclined to want things. I thank 
you all for a pleasant hour. It is like home, or better.” 
With this he bow r ed low to my mother’s curtsey, and 
went away, chatting as I conducted him to the door, 
and promising to sail with me, or to fish. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 129 


Naturally enough, on my return I found my parents 
discussing our newly found relative. My mother 
thought he talked much of himself, and had been 
pleasanter if he had not spoken so frankly of his 
father. My father said little, except that there seemed 
to be good in the young man. 

“Why should we not forgive that in him which 
we must forgive in our own son ? ” 

My father had some dreadful power to hurt me, 
and to me only was he an unjust man j this may 
have been because my wrong-doing troubled both 
his paternal and his spiritual pride. I w r as about 
to say that there was little likeness between my sin 
and that of my cousin 5 but I saw my mother, as she 
stood a little back of my father’s great bulk, shake 
her head, and I held my tongue. Not so she. 

“ If thou hadst been a woman in my place, John 
Wynne, thou wouldst be far from saying the thing 
thou hast said.” 

Never had I heard or seen in our house a thing 
like this. I saw, in the fading light, my father work- 
ing his hands as I have described, a signal of re- 
strained anger, and, like anything physically unus- 
ual in one we love, not quite pleasant to see. But 
my mother, who knew not fear of him nor of any, 
went on, despite his saying, “ This is unseemly— un- 
seemly, wife.” 

“ Thou art unjust, John, to my son.” 

“ Thy son ? ” 

“Yes ; mine as well as thine. I have faith that thou, 
even thou, J ohn, wouldst have done as my boy did.” 


130 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ I ? I ? ” he cried ; and now I saw that he was dis- 
turbed, for he was moving his feet like some proud, 
restrained horse pawing the grass. At last he 
broke, the stillness which followed his exclamations : 
“ There is but one answer, wife. Both have been 
brutes, but this boy has been kept near to godly 
things all his life. Each First-day the tongues of 
righteous men have taught him to live clean, to put 
away wrath, to love his enemies; and in a day — a 
minute— it is gone, and, as it were, useless, and I the 
shame of the town.” 

I hoped this was all ; but my mother cried, “ John ! 
John! It is thy pride that is hurt. No, it is not 
seemly to dispute with thee, and before thy son. And 
yet— and yet— even that is better than to let him go 
with the thought that he is altogether like, or no better 
than, that man. If thou hast a duty to bear testi- 
mony, so have I.” And thus the mother of the prod- 
igal son had her say. No doubt she found it hard, 
and I saw her dash the tears away with a quick hand, 
as she added, u If I have hurt thee, John, I am sorry.” 

“ There is but one answer, wife. Love thy enemy ; 
do good to them that despitefully use thee. Thou 
wilt ruin thy son with false kindness, and who shall 
save him from the pit ? ” 

I turned at last in a storm of indignation, crying, 
u Could I see my mother treated like a street- wench 
or a gutter-drab, and. lift no hand? I wish I had 
killed him ! ” 

“ See, wife,” said my father. “ Yes, even this was 
to be borne.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 131 


“ Not by me ! ” I cried, and strode into the house, 
wondering if ever I was to be done with it. 

The day after no one of us showed a sign of this 
outbreak. Never had I seen the like of it among us ; 
but the Quaker habit of absolute self-repression, and 
of concealment of emotion again prevailed, so that 
at breakfast we met as usual, and, whatever we may 
have felt, there was no outward evidence of my 
mother’s just anger, of my father’s bitterness, or of 
my own disgust. 


X 


WAS not yet to see the end of my ini- 
quity, and was to feel the consequences in 
ways which, for many a day, influenced 
my life and actions. 

It was toward the end of June. The 
feeling of uneasiness and dread was becoming more 
and more felt, not only in commerce, which is so sen- 
sitive, but also in the social relations of men. The 
king’s officers were more saucy, and, like all soldiers, 
eager for active service, imagining an easy victory 
over a people untrained in war. Such Tory pam- 
phleteers as the foul-tongued Massachusetts writer, 
Daniel Leonard, were answering “ Vindex ” (Mr. 
Adams) and the widely read letters of “ An American 
Farmer.” The plan of organised correspondence 
between the colonies began to be felt in some ap- 
proach to unity of action, for at this time the out* 
spoken objection to the views of the king and his 
facile minister was general, and even men like Gal- 
loway, Chew, the Allens, and John Penn stood with 
varying degrees of good will among those who were 
urging resistance to oppression. As yet the too 
mighty phantom of independence had not a ppeared 

132 




Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 133 


on the horizon of our stormy politics, to scare the 
timid, and to consolidate our own resistance. 

I worked hard with my father at our lessening 
and complicated business, riding far into the country 
to collect debts, often with Jack, who had like er- 
rands to do, and with whom I discussed the topics 
which were so often, and not always too amiably, in 
question at my Aunt Gainor’s table. I was just 
now too busy to be much with my old favourites, the 
officers. Indeed, I was wise enough to keep away 
from them. 

My cousin I saw often, both at my aunt’s, as I shall 
relate, and elsewhere 5 for he came much to our house, 
and my father found it agreeable to talk over with 
him the news of the day. My mother did not like 
him as well, but she held her peace, and, like every 
other man, he was attracted by her gaiety, and quaint 
way of looking at men and things. 

Mr. Wilson I saw at times, as he still had, I know 
not why, a fancy for me, and loved well to sail with 
me of evenings over to Kaighn’s Point to fish, or 
down to* Gloucester to bob for crabs. I owed him 
much. A profound knowledge of law, variety of 
reading, and a mind which left broadly on our after- 
history the marks of his powerful intellect, were at 
my service. He used to caution me how I spoke of 
his opinions to others, and he would then discuss with 
freedom politics and the men whose figures were fast 
rising into distinctness as leaders to be listened to and 
trusted. Many of them he knew, and thus first I heard 
clearly what manner of persons were Patrick Henry 


134 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


and the Adamses, Dickinson, Peyton Randolph, and 
others less prominent. In this way I came to be more 
and more confirmed in the opinions my Annt Gainor 
so resolutely held, and also more careful how I ex- 
pressed them. Indeed, although but twenty years of 
age, I was become quite suddenly an older and graver 
man. Mr. Wilson surprised me one day by saying 
abruptly, as he pulled up a reluctant crab, “ Do you 
never think, Hugh, that we shall have war ? ” 

I was indeed amazed, and said so. Then he added, 
“It will come. My place will not be in the field, 
but, whether you like it or not, you will see battles. 
You were made for a soldier, Hugh, Quaker or no 
Quaker.” 

I thought it odd that two people as different as my 
Aunt Gainor and he should have the same belief 
that we were drifting into war. She had said to me 
the night before that she had known Lord North as 
a boy, and that the king was an obstinate Dutchman, 
and would make his minister go his way, adding, 
“ When it comes you will be in it ; you can’t escape.” 

No one else whom I knew had any such belief. 
Wilson’s views and prediction sent me home thought- 
ful enough. 

That evening my father said to me, “We go to 
Merion the day after to-morrow.” It was there we 
spent our summers. “ To-morrow will be Fourth- 
day. It is our last day of Meeting in the town. There 
will, perhaps, be some wise words said as to present 
confusions, and I wish thee to hear them, my son.” 

I said, “ Yes ; at seven, father ? ” I was, however, 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 135 

astonished; for these occasional night Meetings in 
the middle of the week were but rarely attended by 
the younger Friends, and, although opened with such 
religious observances as the society affected, were 
chiefly reserved for business and questions of disci- 
pline. I had not the least desire to go, but there was 
no help for it. 

Our supper took place at six on this Wednesday, 
a little earlier than usual, and I observed that my 
father drank several cups of tea, which was not his 
habit. Few people took tea since the futile tax 
had been set upon it; but my father continued to 
drink it, and would have no concealment, as was the 
custom with some Whigs, who in public professed 
to be opposed to the views of the crown as to the 
right to collect indirect taxes. 

Seeing that I did not drink it, and knowing that 
I liked nothing better than a good dish of tea, he 
asked me why I did not partake of it. Not willing 
to create new trouble, I said I did not want any. 
He urged the matter no further, but I saw he was 
not well pleased. We set off soon after in silence, 
he walking with hands behind his back clasping his 
gold-headed cane, his coflarless coat and waistcoat 
below his beaver, and the gray hair in a thick mass 
between. He wore shoes, fine drab short-clothes, 
and black silk stockings, all without buckles; and 
he moved rapidly, nodding to those he met on the 
way, to the Bank Meeting-house, in Front Street, 
above Arch. 

It was a simple, one-story, brick building, set a 


136 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


few feet above the level of the roadway. The gables 
and shutters were painted white, as was also the 
plain Doric doorway, which had a pillar on each 
side. I judged by the number of both sexes enter- 
ing that it was an unusual occasion. There were 
many drab-coated men, and there were elderly women, 
in gowns of drab or gray, with white silk shawls 
and black silk-covered cardboard bonnets. Here and 
there a man or woman was in gayer colours or wore 
buckles, and some had silver buttons ; but these were 
rare. The Meeting-room was, so to speak, a large 
oblong box with whitewashed walls. A broad 
passage ran from the door to the farther end; on 
the right of it sat the men, on the left the women ; 
against the remoter wall, facing the rude benches, 
were three rows of seats, one above the other. On 
these sat at the back the elders, and in front of 
them the overseers. The clerk of the Meeting had 
a little desk provided for him. Over their heads 
was a long sounding-board. 

To me the scene had been familiar for years ; but 
to-day it excited my attention because of an air of 
expectation, and even of excitement, among the few 
more youthful Friends. I saw, as we entered, furtive 
glances cast at my father and myself ; but as to this 
I had grown to be of late more or less indifferent, and 
had no anticipation of what was to follow later. 

I had become, since my sad downfall, a more serious 
and thoughtful young man, and far better fitted to 
feel the beauty and the spirituality of these Meetings 
than I had been before. When the doors were closed 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 137 


I sat silent in prayer ; for some ten minutes increas- 
ing stillness came upon one and all of the three or 
four hundred people here met together. 

As I waited, with long-trained patience, for full 
twenty minutes, a yet deeper quiet fell on the 
figures seated on each side of the aisle. For a 
time none of the men uncovered, but soon a few 
took off their broad hats, having remained with 
them on their heads long enough to satisfy cus- 
tom by this protest against the ways of other men. 
The larger number kept their hats on their heads. 
Then a strange incident took place: a woman of 
middle age, but gray, her hair fallen about her 
shoulders, entered noisily, and, standing before the 
elders, cried out in a loud voice, as though in afflic- 
tion and sore distress, “See to your standing; the 
Lord is about to search and examine your camp. 
Ho ! ye of little faith and less works, the hand of 
God is come upon you— the mighty hand of punish- 
ment.” As she spake thus wildly she swayed to and 
fro, and seemed to me disordered in mind. Finally 
she passed across the space in front of the overseers, 
to the women’s side, and then back again, repeating 
her mad language. My Aunt Gainor’s great bronze 
Buddha was not more motionless than they who sat 
on the elders’ seats. At last the woman faced the 
Meeting, and went down the aisle, waving her hands, 
and crying out, “ I shall have peace, peace, in thus 
having discharged my Lord’s errand.” The many 
there met did justice to their discipline. Scarce a 
face showed the surprise all must have felt. No one 


138 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


turned to see her go out, or seemed to hear the door 
banged furiously after her. The covered heads re- 
mained silent and undisturbed; the rows of deep 
bonnets were almost as moveless. Fully ten minutes 
of perfect silence followed this singular outburst. 
Then I saw the tall, gaunt figure of Nicholas Wain 
rise slowly, a faint but pleasant smile on his severe 
face, while he looked about him and began : 

u Whether what ye have heard be of God I cannot 
say. The time hath troubled many souls. The woman, 
Sarah Harris, who hath, as some are aware, borne 
many sweet and pleasing testimonies to Friends in 
Wilmington, I know not. Whether what ye have 
heard be of God or but a rash way of speech, let us 
feel that it is a warning to Friends here assembled 
that we be careful of what we say and do. It hath 
been borne in upon me that Friends do not fully 
understand one another, and that some are moved 
to wrath, and some inclined to think that Friends 
should depart from their ways and question that 
which hath been done by the rulers God hath set over 
us. Let us be careful that our General Epistles lean 
not to the aiding of corrupt and wicked men, who are 
leading weak-minded persons into paths of violence.” 
And here he sat down. 

A moment later got up Thomas Scattergood, grim 
and dark of visage. None of his features expressed 
the slightest emotion, although even from the begin- 
ning he spoke wuth vehemence and his body rocked 
to and fro. 

u The days are darkening ; the times are evil. Our 
master, set over us by God, has seen fit to tax cer 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 139 

tain commodities, that means may be raised for the 
just government of these colonies, where we and our 
fathers have prospered in our worldly goods, under 
a rule that has left us free to worship God as seems 
best to us. And now we are bid by men, not of our 
society, ungodly self-seekers, sons of darkness, to 
unite with them in the way of resistance to the law. 
There have even been found here among us those 
who have signed agreements to disobey such as are 
set over us, unmindful of the order to render to Caesar 
that which is his. Let there be among Friends neither 
fear nor any shortcoming. Let us bear testimony 
against evil-doers, whether they be of us or not. Let 
us cut down and utterly cast forth those who depart 
from righteousness. Are they not of the scum which 
riseth on the boiling pot ? There is a time for Friends 
to remonstrate, and a time to act. I fear lest these 
too gentle counsels of Friend Wain be out of time 
and out of place. Away with those who, hearing, 
heed not. Let them be dealt with as they should be, 
with love for the sinner, but with thought as to the 
evil which comes of unscourged examples, so that 
when again we are met in the Quarterly Meeting there 
shall be none among us to stir up discord, and we can 
say to other Meetings, ‘ As we have done, so do ye. 
Make clean the house of the Lord/ ” 

The night was now upon us, and the ringing tones 
of the speaker were heard through the darkness be- 
fore he sat down. While all waited, two Friends 
lit the candles set in tin sconces against the pillars 
of the gallery, and, in the dim light they gave, the 
discussion went on. 


140 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Then I saw that Arthur Howell was about to speak. 
This able and tender-minded man usually sat in 
Meeting with his head bent, his felt hat before his 
eyes, wrapped in thought, and lifted above all con- 
sideration of the things of this earth. As he began, 
his rich, full voice filled the space, and something in 
its pleading sweetness appealed to every heart. He 
spoke as one who, having no doubt, wondered that 
any one else should doubt, and he brought the dis- 
cussion to a decisive point at once. 

“ It is well,” he said, “ that all should be convinced 
by those who, from age and influence among Friends, 
have the best right of speech. Nevertheless, since 
this is a Meeting for discipline, let all be heard with 
fairness and order. Men have gone astray. They 
have contended for the asserting of civil rights in 
a manner contrary to our peaceable profession and 
principles, and, although repeatedly admonished, do 
not manifest any disposition to make the Meeting a 
proper acknowledgment of their outgoings. There- 
fore it is that we bear our testimony against such 
practices, and can have no unity with those who fol- 
low them until they come to a sense of their errors. 
Therefore, if this be the sense of our Meeting, let 
the clerk be moved to manifest the feelings of the 
Meeting to these members, signing on our behalf, 
for the matter hath already been before us twice, 
and hath been deeply and prayerfully considered by 
ourselves ; and I am charged to tell Friends that these 
members who have thus gone astray are unwilling 
to be convinced by such as have sought to bring them 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 141 


to a better mind. This hath been duly reported, and 
overseers having thus failed, it doth only remain 
to abide by the sense of our Meeting. But this I 
have already said : the matter hath been prayerfully 
considered.” 

After this, others spoke, but all elder Friends un- 
derstood that the business had been disposed of, and 
little attention was given to those who rose after 
Friend Howell sat down. Indeed, that they were ill- 
advised to speak at all was plainly to be read in the 
countenances of many. 

This was my first experience of an evening Meet- 
ing, and, even to one acquainted with all the ways 
of Friends, the scene was not without its interest. 
The night was now dark outside. The tallow dips 
ran down and flared dismally. A man with snuffers 
went to and fro, and the pungent odours of candles, 
burned out and to be replaced, filled the room. 

In the quiet which followed Arthur Howell’s re- 
fined and distinct accents, I looked at the row of 
placid faces where the women sat, some rosy, some 
old, all in the monastic cell of the bonnet, which made 
it as impossible to see, except in front, as it is for a 
horse with blinders. I wondered how this queer head- 
gear came to have been made, and recalled my aunt’s 
amusement at the care exercised as to its form and 
material. Few there, I think, let their thoughts 
wander, and in front of me the row of drab coats and 
wide felt or beaver hats remained almost motionless. 

At last James Pemberton, the esteemed clerk of 
the Meeting, rose. “ I am moved,” he said, “ by the 


142 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Spirit to declare that the sense, and also the weight, 
of the Meeting is that Cyrus Edson and William 
Jameson be advised, in accordance with the instructed 
wish of Friends.” 

He then sat down. There was no vote taken. 
Even had a majority of those present been hostile to 
the proposed action, it is improbable that any protest 
would have been made. The clerk’s statement that 
the weight of the Meeting was affirmative, would 
have been held to settle the matter, as it appeared 
best to a limited number of those recognised, through 
their piety and strict living, to be competent to decide 
for the rest. 

I was now assured that this was all, and looked to 
see two of the elders shake hands, which is the well- 
recognised signal for the Meeting to break up j but 
as the elders did not move, the rest sat still and waited. 
By and by I saw Nicholas Wain extend his hand to 
my father, who, looking steadily before him, made 
no sign of perceiving this intention to dismiss 
Friends. A still longer pause followed. As I learned 
afterward, no further speaking was anticipated. No 
one stirred. For my part, I was quite ready to go, 
and impatient^ awaited the signal of dismissal. A 
minute or two passed j then I was aware of a short, 
neatly built man, who rose from a bench near by. 
His face was strong, irregular of feature, and for 
some reason impressed me. I could see even in 
the indistinct light that he flushed deeply as he got 
up on his feet. He received instant attention, for he 
went past me, and, standing in the passageway, was 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 143 

quiet for a moment. He was, 1 think, not over thirty, 
and seemed embarrassed at the instant attention he 
received. For a few minutes he appeared to seek 
his words, and then, quite suddenly, to find them in 
eloquent abundance. 

“ It is not usual,” he said, “for disowned members 
of the society to openly protest. Neither are these 
our brothers here to-day. Nor, were they with us, 
are they so skilled with the tongue as to be able to 
defend themselves against the strong language of 
Thomas Scattergood or the gentle speech of Arthur 
Howell. I would say a word for them, and, too, for 
myself, since nothing is more sure than that I think 
them right, and know that ye will, before long, cast 
out me, to whom your worship is sweet and lovely, 
and the ways of Friends for the most part such as 
seem to me more acceptable than those of any other 
Christian society. Whether it be that old memories 
of persecution, or too great prosperity, have hardened 
you, I do not know. It does seem to me that ye have 
put on a severity of dress and life that was not so 
once, and that undue strictness hath destroyed for us 
some of the innocent joys of this world. I also find 
unwholesome and burdensome that inner garment 
of self-righteousness in which ye clothe yourselves 
to judge the motives of your fellow-men. 

“ So far as the law went against such views as you 
entertained, none did more resist them, in your own 
way, than did you ; but now the English across the 
seas tell us that the liberty our fathers sought on 
these shores is to be that which pleases a corrupt and 


1 44 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 


pliant ministry, and not that which is common to 
men of English blood. Some brave men of onr so- 
ciety say , 1 Let us make a stand here, lest worse things 
come. Let us refuse to eat, drink, or wear the ar- 
ticles they assume to tax, whether we will or not/ 
There is no violence. Believe me, there will be none 
if we are one throughout the colonies. But if not — 
if not — if grave old men like you, afraid of this mere 
shadow of passive resistance, dreading to see trade 
decay and the fat flanks of prosperity grow lean— 
if you are wholly with our oppressors, passively with 
them, or, as some believe, actively, then— then, dear 
friends, it will be not the shadow, but the substance, 
of resistance that will fall in blood and ruin on you 
and on all men— on your easy lives and your ac- 
cumulated gains. 

“ Aye, look to it ! There is blood on the garments 
of many a man who sits fearfully at home, and thinks 
that because he does nothing he will be free of guilt 
when the great account is called.” 

On this a rare exception to the tranquillity of Meet- 
ing occurred. Daniel Offley, by trade a farrier, rose 
and broke in, speaking loudly, as one used to lift his 
voice amid the din of hammers : “ Wherefore should 
this youth bring among us the godless things of 
worldly men ? ” His sonorous tones rang out through 
the partial obscurity, and shook, as I noticed, the 
scattered spires of the candle flames. “This is no 
time for foolish men to be heard, where the elders 
are of a mind. The sense of the Meeting is with us. 
The weight of the Meeting is with us. The king is 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 145 


a good king, and who are we to resist ? Out with 
those who are not of our ways! Let the hammer 
fall on the unrighteous, lest the sheep be scattered, 
and the Shepherd leave them.” 

At this queer mixture of metaphors I saw the pre- 
vious speaker smile, as he stood in the aisle. Next 
I heard the gentle voice of James Pemberton break 
in on the uncouth speech of the big farrier. 

“ It is the custom of Friends that all men who feel 
to be moved to tell us aught shall be heard. Friend 
Wetherill, we will hear thee to an end.” He spoke 
with the courteous ease of a well-bred gentleman, and 
the smith sat down. 

Friend Wetherill paused a moment, looking to left 
and right along the lines of deeply interested and 
motionless faces. Then he continued : u On what you 
and others do in these days depends what shall come 
upon us. Let no man deceive you, not even the timid 
counsel of gray hairs or the wariness of wealth. The 
guinea fears ; the penny fights ; and the poor penny 
is to-day deeply concerned. You take shelter under 
the law of Christ, to live, as far as possible, at peace 
with all men. As far as possible ? It should at times 
be felt that Paul’s limitation is also a command. 
Do not resist him who would slay a child or wrong 
a woman— that is ho w you read the law of God. 

“ It is extremes which bring ruin to the best Chris- 
tian societies, and if the mass of men were with you 
civil order would cease, and the carefully builded 
structure of civilisation would perish. You are al- 
ready undergoing a process of dry decay, and as you 
10 


146 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


dry and dry, you harden and shrink, and see it not. 
A wild woman has told you to set your camp in order. 
See to it, my friends j see to it ! ” 

For not less than a minute the speaker remained 
silent, with bended head, still keeping the won- 
derfully steady attention of this staid assembly. 
Very slowly he lifted his face, and now, as he began 
again, it was with a look of tender sweetness : “ It 
was far back in Second-month, 1771, I began to be 
encompassed by doubts as to the course Friends were 
taking. To-day I am assured in spirit that you are 
wrong in the support you gave, and, let me say, are 
giving, to an unjust cause. I think I take an inno- 
cent liberty to express myself on this occasion, als& 
according to the prospect I have of the matter. 
There is something due to the king, and something 
to the cause of the public. When kings deviate from 
the righteous law of justice in which kings ought to 
rule, it is the right, aye, and the religious duty, of the 
people to be plain and honest in letting them know 
where. I am not a person of such consequence as 
to dictate ; but there is in me and in you a court, to 
which I confidently appeal. I have appealed to it in 
prayer, as to what my course shall be. I obey my 
conscience. Take heed that you do not act rashly.” 

Here again, after these calm words, he paused, and 
then said, with emphatic sternness, “As my last 
words, let me leave with you the admonition of the 
great founder of this colony. 1 1 beseech you/ he 
says, ‘for the sake of Christ, who so sharply pro- 
hibited making others suffer for their religion, that 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 147 


you have a eare how you exercise power over other 
men’s consciences. My friends, conscience is God’s 
throne in man, and the power of it His prerogative ! * 
These are solemn words. Whether you leave me to 
live among you, free to do what seems right to me^ 
or drive me forth, who have no wish to go, now and 
always I shall love you. That love you cannot take 
away, nor weaken, nor disturb.” 

I was sorry when the melody of this clear voice 
ceased. The speaker, wiping the moisture from his 
brow, stood still, and, covering Ins face with his hands, 
was lo§t in the prayer which I doubt not followed. 

A long interval of absence of all sound came after 
he ceased to speak. No one replied. The matter was 
closed, a decision reached, and the clerk instructed. 
I knew enough to feel sure that those manly tones 
of appeal and remonstrance had failed of their 
purpose. 

At this moment I saw an elderly man on the seat 
before me rise, and with deliberateness kneel in 
prayer j or, as Friends say, Israel Sharpless appeared 
in supplication. At first, as he began to be heard, 
Friends rose here and there, until all were afoot and 
all uncovered. The silence and reverent bended heads, 
and the dim light, affected me as never before. Many 
turned their backs on the praying man, an odd cus- 
tom, but common. As he prayed his voice rose until 
it filled the great room ; and of a sudden I started, 
and broke out in a cold sweat, for this was what 1 
heard : 

11 0 Lord, arise, and let Thine enemies be scattered. 


148 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Dip me deeper in Jordan. Wash me in the laver of 
regeneration. Give me courage to wrestle with ill- 
doers. Let my applications be heard. 

“ Father of mercy, remember of Thy pity those of 
the young among us who, being fallen into evil ways, 
are gone astray. We pray that they who have gam- 
bled and drunk and brought to shame and sorrow 
their elders may be recovered into a better mind, 
and sin no more. We pray Thee, Almighty Father, 
that they be led to consider and to repent of deeds 
of violence, that those among us whom the confusion 
of the times has set against the law and authority of 
rulers be better counselled ; or, if not, strengthen us 
so to deal with these young men as shall make pure 
again Thy sheepfold, that they be no longer a means 
of leading others into wickedness and debauchery.” 
I heard no more. This man was a close friend of my 
father. I knew but too well that it was I who was 
thus reproved, and thus put to shame. I looked this 
way and that, the hot blood in my face, thinking to 
escape. Custom held me. I caught, as I stared, 
furtive glances from some of the younger folk. Here 
and there some sweet, gentle face considered me a 
moment with pity, or wuth a curiosity too strong for 
even the grim discipline of Friends. I stood erect. 
The prayer went on. Now and then I caught a phrase, 
but the most part of what he said was lost to me. I 
looked about me at times with the anguish of a 
trapped animal. 

At last I saw that my gentle- voiced speaker, Weth- 
erill, was, like myself, rigid, with upheld head, and 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 149 


that, with a faint smile on his face, he was looking 
toward me. Minute after minute passed. Would 
they never be done with it ? I began to wonder what 
was going on under those bent gray hats and black 
bonnets. I was far away from penitence or remorse, a 
bruised and tormented man, helpless, if ever a man was 
helpless, under the monotonous and silent reproach of 
some hundreds of people who had condemned me un- 
heard. It did seem as if it never would end. 

At last the voice died out. The man rose, and put 
on his hat. All resumed their seats and their head- 
coverings. I saw that Friend Scattergood extended a 
hand to my father, who was, as I have not yet stated, 
an elder. The grasp was accepted. Elders and over- 
seers, both men and women, rose, and we also. I 
pushed my way out, rudely, I fear. At the door 
James Pemberton put out his hand. I looked him 
full in the face, and turned away from the too inquis- 
itive looks of the younger Friends. I went by my 
father without a word. He could not have known 
what pain his method of saving my soul would cost 
me. That he had been in some way active in the 
matter I did not doubt, and I knew later that my 
opinion was but too correct. 

Hastening down Front street with an overwhelm- 
ing desire to be alone, I paused at our own door, and 
then, late as it was, now close to ten, I unmoored my 
boat, and was about to push off when I felt a hand 
on my shoulder. It was Samuel Wetherili. 

“Let me go with thee, my boy,” he said. “We 
should talk a little, thou and 1.” 


15° Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


I said, “Yes. Thou art the only man I want to 
see to-night.” 

There were no more words. The moon was up as I 
pulled down Dock Creek and out on my friendly river. 

“ Let thy boat drift,” he said. “ Perhaps thou art 
aware, Hugh Wynne, how grieved I was ; for I know 
all that went before. I somehow think that thou 
hast already done for thyself what these good folk 
seemed to think was needed. Am I right ? ” 

“ Yes,” I said. 

“ Then say no more. James Wilson has spoken 
of thee often. To be loved of such a man is much. 
I hear that thou hast been led to think with us, and 
that, despite those wicked wild oats, thou art a young 
man of parts and good feelings, thoughtful beyond 
thy years.” 

I thanked him almost in tears; for this kindly 
judgment was, past belief, the best remedy I could 
have had. 

“I saw thy great suffering; but in a year, in a 
month, this will seem a thing of no import; only, 
when thou art calm and canst think, hold a Meeting 
in thy own heart, and ask thy quiet judgment, thy 
conscience, thy memory, if prayer be needed ; and do 
it for thyself, Hugh.” 

I said, “ Thank thee,” but no more. I have ever 
been averse to talking of my relations to another 
world, or of what I believe, or of what I am led 
thereby to do in hours of self-communion. I sat 
wishing my father were like this, a tender-hearted 
yet resolute man. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 151 


Seeing me indisposed to speak, lie went on : “If we 
could but keep the better part of Friends’ creed, and 
be set free to live at peace with the law, to realise 
that to sit down quietly under oppression may be to 
serve the devil, and not God ! Thou knowest, as well 
as I, that divers Friends have publicly avowed the 
ministry, and allege that whatever they may do is a 
just punishment of rebellion. We are going to have 
a serious settlement, and it will become us all, Hugh, 
young and old, to see that we are on the right side, 
even if we have to draw the sword. And thou and 
I shall not be alone of Friends. There are Clement 
and Owen Biddle, and Christopher Marshall, and 
more.” 

I was surprised, and said so. 

“ Yes, yes,” he said ; “ but I talk to thee as to a 
man, and these things are not to be spread abroad. 
I trust I have been to thee a comfort ; and, now the 
moon is setting, let us go home.” 

I thanked him as well as I knew how. He had 
indeed consoled me. 

When I came in my father had gone to bed, but 
my mother was waiting to see me. She caught me 
in her arms, and, weeping like a child, cried, “ Oh, I 
have heard ! He did not tell me beforehand, or I 
should have forbade it. Thou shouldst never have 
gone ! never ! It was cruel ! Mon Dieu ! how could 
they do it ! ” 

It was I who now had to comfort, and this helped 
me amazingly, and yet added to my just anger; 
for why must she, who was innocent, be thus made 


i^2 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


to suffer? My father, when he came in, had asked 
for me. He had met my cousin, who had seen me 
going down Front street, and had hinted that I meant 
to find comfort at the coffee-house among the officers. 
She knew better, and had said her mind of this kins- 
man and his ways ; upon which my father had gone 
angry to his bed. I was beginning to have an in- 
creasing distrust and dislike of Arthur, and the 
present news did not lessen either feeling. So at 
last here was an end of the consequences of my sad 
night at the coffee-house. 


XI 



I 

r> 


HE next day we went to our farm in 
Merion. My father said no word of the 
Meeting, nor did I. The summer of ’73 
went on. I rode in to my work daily, 
sometimes with my father, who talked 
almost altogether of his cattle or of his ventures, 
never of the lowering political horizon. He had ex- 
cused himself from being a consignee of the tea, on 
the score of his voyage, which was now intended for 
September. 

My aunt lived in summer on the farther slope of 
Chestnut Hill, where, when the road was in order, 
came her friends for a night, and the usual card-play. 
When of a Saturday I was set free, I delighted to 
ride over and spend Sunday with her, my way being 
across country to one of the fords on the Schuylkill, 
or out from town by the Ridge or the Germantown 
highroad. The ride was long, but, with my saddle- 
bags and Lucy, a new mare my aunt had raised and 
given me, and clad in overalls, which we called tongs, 
I cared little for the mud, and often enough stopped 
to assist a chaise out of the deep holes, which made 
the roads dangerous for vehicles. 

Late one day in August, I set out with my friend 

K3 



154 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Jack to spend a Sunday with my Aunt Gainor. 
Jack Warder was now a prime favourite, and highly 
approved. We rode up Front street, and crossed the 
bridge where Mulberry street passed under it, and is 
therefore to this day called Arch street, although few 
know why. The gay coats of officers were plentiful, 
farmers in their smocks were driving in with their 
vegetables, and to the right was the river, with here 
and there a ship, and, beyond, the windmill on the 
island. We talked of the times, of books, of my father’s 
Voyage, and of my future stay with my aunt. 

Although Jack’s father was a Quaker, he was too 
discreet a business man not to approve of Jack’s 
visits to my aunt, and too worldly not to wish for 
his son a society to which he was not born j so Mrs. 
Ferguson and Mrs. Galloway made much of Jack, 
and he was welcome, like myself, at Cliveden, where 
the Chews had their summer home. 

The Tory ladies laughed at his way of blushing 
like a girl, and, to Jack’s dismay, openly envied his 
pink-and- white skin and fair locks. They treated 
him as if he were younger than I, although, as it 
chanced, we were born on the same day of the same 
year; and yet he liked it all— the gay women, the 
coquettish Tory maids, even the “ genteel ” Quaker 
dames, such as Mrs. Sarah Logan or Mrs. Morris, 
and the pretty girls of the other side, like Sarah 
Lukens and the Misses Willing, with their family 
gift of beauty. These and more came and went at my 
aunt’s, with men of all parties, and the grave Drs. Rush 
and Parke, and a changing group of English officers. 


H ugh Wynne: Free Quaker 155 


In the little old house at Belmont, the Rev. Richard 
Peters was glad to sit at cards with the Tory ladies, 
whose cause was not his, and still less that of Richard, 
his nephew. At times, as was the custom, sleigh- 
ing parties in winter or riding-parties in summer 
used to meet at Cliveden or Springetsbury, or at a 
farm-house where John Penn dwelt while engaged 
in building the great house of Lansdowne, looking 
over trees to the quiet Schuylkill. 

We rode out gaily this August afternoon, along 
the Germantown road, admiring the fine farms, and 
the forests still left among the cultivated lands. 
Near Fisher’s Lane we saw some two or three peo- 
ple in the road, and, drawing near, dismounted. 
A black man, who lay on the ground, groaning with 
a cut head, and just coming to himself, I saw to be 
my aunt’s coachman Caesar. Beside him, held by a 
farmer, was a horse with a pillion and saddle, all 
muddy enough from a fall. Near by stood a slight 
young woman in a saveguard petticoat and a sad- 
coloured, short camlet cloak. 

“ It is Miss Darthea Peniston,” said Jack. 

“ Miss Peniston,” I said, dismounting, “ what has 
happened ? ” 

She told me quietly, that, riding pillion to stay 
with my aunt, the horse had fallen and hurt Caesar, 
not badly, she thought. She had alighted on her 
feet, but what should she do? After some dis- 
cussion, and the black being better, we settled to 
leave him, and I proposed that Jack, the lighter 
weight, should ride my Aunt GainoPs horse, with 


156 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Miss Peniston on the pillion behind him. Upon this 
Jack got red, at the idea, I suppose, of Miss Darthea’s 
contemplating the back of his head for four miles. 
The young woman looked on with shy amusement. 

At this moment Caesar, a much pampered person, 
who alone of all her house dared give my aunt ad- 
vice, declared he must have a doctor. Jack, much 
relieved, said it was inhuman to leave him in this 
case, and put an end to our discussion by riding 
away to fetch old Dr. de Benneville. 

Miss Darthea laughed, said it was a sad thing a 
woman should have no choice, and pretended to be 
in misery as to my unfortunate lot. I said nothing, 
but, after looking Caesar’s horse over, I gave my sad- 
dle to be kept at the farmer’s, and put the coachman’s 
saddle on my mare Lucy, with the pillion behind 
made fast to the saddle-straps arranged for this use. 
Then I looked well to the girths, and mounted to see 
how Lucy would like it. She liked it not at all, and 
was presently all over the road and up against the 
fence of the old graveyard I was to see again in other 
and wilder days. 

I saw the little lady in the road watching me with 
a smiling face, by no means ill pleased with the spec- 
tacle. At last I cried, “ Wait ! ” and putting Miss Lucy 
down the road for a mile at a run, soon brought her 
back quite submissive. 

“ Art thou afraid ?” I said. 

“I do not like to be asked if I am afraid. I am 
very much afraid, but I would die rather than not get 
on your mare.” So a chair was fetched, Miss Penis- 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker- 157 


ton put on her linen riding-mask, and in a moment 
was seated behind me. For ten minutes I was fully 
taken up with the feminine creature under me. At 
last I said : 

“Put an arm around my waist. I must let her 
go. At once ! ” I added ; for the mare was getting to 
rear a little, and the young woman hesitated. “ Do 
as I tell thee ! ” I cried sharply, and when I felt her 
right arm about me, I said, “ Hold fast ! ” and gave 
the mare her head. A mile sufficed, with the double 
burden, so to quiet her that she came down to her 
usual swift and steady walk. 

When there was this chance to talk without hav- 
ing every word jolted out in fragments, the young 
person was silent; and when I remarked, “There 
is now an opportunity to chat with comfort,” said : 

“ I was waiting, sir, to hear your excuses ; but per- 
haps Friends do not apologise.” 

I thought her saucy, for I had done my best ; and 
for her to think me unmannerly was neither just nor 
kind. 

“ If I am of thy friends—” 

“ Oh, Quakers, I meant. Friends with a large F, 
Mr. Wynne.” 

“ It had been no jesting matter if the mare had 
given thee a hard fall.” 

“ I should have liked that better than to be ordered 
to do as your worship thought fit.” 

“ Then thou shouldst -not have obeyed me.” 

“ But I had to.” 

“ Yes,” I said. And the talk having fallen into these 


158 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

brevities, Miss Peniston was quiet awhile, no doubt 
pouting prettily ; her face was, of course, hid from me. 

After a while she said something about the mile- 
stones being near together, and then took to praising 
Lucy, who, I must say, had behaved as ill as a horse 
-could. I said as much, whereon I was told that 
mares were jealous animals ; which I thought a 
queer speech, and replied, not knowing well how to 
reply, that the mare was a good beast, and that it 
was fair flattery to praise a man’s horse, for what 
was best in the horse came of the man’s handling. 

“ But even praise of his watch a man likes,” said 
she. u He has a fine appetite, and likes to fatten 
his vanity.” 

She was too quick for me in those days, and I never 
was at any time very smart at this game, having to 
reflect too long before seeing my way. I said that 
she was no doubt right, but thus far that I had 
had thin diet. 

Perhaps saying that Lucy was gay and well bred 
and had good paces was meant to please the rider. 
This woman, as I found later, was capable of many 
varieties of social conduct, and was not above flatter- 
ing for the mere pleasure it gave her to indulge her 
generosity, and for the joy she had in seeing others 
happy. 

Wondering if what she had said might be true, 
held me quiet for a while, and busied with her words, 
I quite forgot the young woman whose breath I felt 
now and then on my hair, as she sat behind me. 

Silence never suited Miss Peniston long in those 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 159 

days, and especially not at this time, she being in a 
merry mood, such as a little adventure causes. Her 
moods were, in fact, many and changeful, and, as I 
was to learn, were too apt to rule even her serious 
actions for the time j but under it all was the true 
law of her life, strongly charactered, and abiding 
like the constitution of a land. It was long before I 
knew the real woman, since for her, as for the most, 
y>f us, all early acquaintance was a masquerade, and 
some have, like this lady, as many vizards as my 
Aunt Gainor had in her sandalwood box, with her 
long gloves and her mitts. 

The mare being now satisfied to walk comfortably, 
we were going by the Wister house, when I saw saucy 
young Sally Wister in the balcony over the stoop, 
midway of the penthouse. She knew us both, and 
pretended shame for us, with her hands over her 
face, laughing merrily. We were friends in after- 
life, and if you would know how gay a creature, 
a young Quakeress could be, and how full of mis- 
chief, you should see her journal, kept for Deborah 
Logan, then Miss Norris. It has wonderful gaiety,, 
and, as I read it, fetches back to mind the officers; 
she prettily sketches, and is so sprightly and so full 
of a life that must have been a joy to itself and to. 
others, that to think of it as gone and over, and of 
her as dead, seems to me a thing impossible. 

It was not thought proper then for a young woman 
to go on pillion behind a young man, and this Miss 
Sally well knew. I dare say she set it down for the 
edification of her young friend. 


i6o Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“The child” (she was rather more than that) “is 
saucy,” said my lady, who understood well enough 
what her gestures meant. “ I should like to box her 
ears. You were very silent just now, Mr. Wynne. 
A penny is what most folks’ thoughts are bid for, 
but yours may be worth more. I would not stand 
at a shilling.” 

“ Then give it to me,” said I. “ I assure thee a 
guinea were too little.” 

“ What are they ? ” 

“ Oh, but the shilling.” 

“ I promise.” 

“ I seem to see a little, dark-faced child crying be ■ 
cause of a boy in disgrace—” 

“Pretty?” she asked demurely. 

“No, rather plain.” 

“ You seem to have too good a memory, sir. Who 
was she ? ” 

“ She is not here to-day.” 

“Yes, yes!” she cried. “I have her— oh, some- 
where ! She comes out on occasions. You may 
never see her ; you may see her to-morrow.” 

I was to see her often. “ My shilling,” I said. 

“That was only a jest, Mr. Wynne. My other 
girl has stolen it, for remembrance of a lad that was 
brave and—” 

“ He was a young fool ! My shilling, please.” 

“ No, no ! ” 

At this I touched the mare with my spur. She, 
not seeing the joke, pranced about, and Miss Darthea 
was forced to hold to my waist for a minute. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 1 6 1 


“The mare is ill broke” she cried. “Why does 
she not go along quietly!” 

“ She hates dishonesty,” I said. 

“ But I have not a penny.” 

“Thou shouldst never run in debt if thou art 
without means. It is worse than gambling, since 
here thou hast had a consideration for thy money, 
and I am out of pocket by a valuable thought.” 

“ I am very bad. I may get prayed over in Meeting, 
only we do not have the custom at Christ Church.” 

I was struck dumb. Of course every one knew of 
my disaster and what came of it ; but that a young 
girl should taunt me with it, and for no reason, 
seemed incredible. No one ever spoke of it to me, 
not even Mistress Ferguson, whose daily food was 
the saying of things no one else dared to say. I rode 
on without a word. 

At last I heard a voice back of me quite changed 
—tender, almost '■earful. “Will you pardon me, 
Mr. Wynne ? I was wicked, and now I have hurt 
you who was once so good to me. Your aunt says 
that I am six girls, not one, and that— Will you 
please to forgive me ? ” 

“ Pray don’t ; there is nothing to forgive. I am 
over-sensitive, I suppose. My friend Mr. Wilson 
says it is a great thing in life to learn how to forget 
wisely. I am learning the lesson ; but some wounds 
take long to heal, and this is true of a boy’s folly. 
Pray say no more.” I put the mare to trotting, and 
we rode on past Cliveden and Mount Airy, neither 
speaking for a while. 


162 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


I wondered, as we rode, at her rashness of talk and 
her want of consideration j and I reflected, with a 
certain surprise, at the frequent discovery, of late, 
on how much older I seemed to be. It was a 
time which quickly matured the thoughtful, and I 
was beginning to shake off, in some degree, the life- 
long shackles of limitation as to conduct, dress, and 
minor morals, imposed upon me by my home sur- 
roundings. In a word, being older than my years, I 
began to think for myself. Under the influence of 
Mr. Wetherill I had come, as without him I could not 
have done, to see how much there was of the beauti- 
ful and noble in the creed of Fox and Penn, how 
much, too, there was in it to cramp enterprise, to 
limit the innocent joys of life, to render progress 
impossible, and submission to every base man or 
government a duty. 

I had learned, too, in my aunt’s house, the ways 
and manners of a larger world, and, if I had yielded 
to its temptations, I had at least profited by the bit- 
ter lesson. I was on the verge of manhood, and had 
begun to feel as I had never done before the charm 
of woman ; this as yet I hardly knew. 

As we breasted the hill, and saw beneath us 
the great forest-land spread out, with its scattered 
farms, an exclamation of delight broke from my 
companion’s lips. It was beautiful then, as it is to- 
day, with the far-seen range of hills beyond the river, 
where lay the Valley Forge I was to know so well, and 
Whitemarsh, all under the hazy blue of a cool August 
day, with the northwest wind blowing in my face. 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 163 


Within there were my aunt and some young wo- 
men, and my Cousin Arthur, with explanations to he 
made, after which my young woman hurried off to 
make her toilet, and I to rid me of my riding-dress. 

It was about seven when we assembled out of doors 
under the trees, where on summer days my Aunt 
Gainor liked to have supper served. My Cousin 
Wynne left Mrs. Ferguson and came to meet me. 
We strolled apart, and he began to ask me questions 
about the tea cargoes expected soon, but which came 
not until December. I said my father’s voyage would 
prevent his acting as consignee, and this seemed to 
surprise him and make him thoughtful, perhaps be- 
cause he was aware of my father’s unflinching loyalty. 
He spoke, too, of Mr. Wilson, appearing— and this 
was natural enough— to know of my intimacy with 
the Whig gentleman. I was cautious in my replies, 
and he learned, I think, but little. It was a pity, he 
said, that my father would not visit Wyncote. It 
seemed to me that he dwelt overmuch on this matter, 
and my aunt, who greatfy fancied him, was also of this 
opinion. I learned long after that he desired to 
feel entirely assured as to the certainty of this visit 
not being made. I said now that I wished I had my 
father’s chance to see our Welsh home, and that I 
often felt sorry my grandfather had given it up. 

“ But he did,” said my cousin, “ and no great thing, 
either. Here you are important people. We are 
petty Welsh squires, in a decaying old house, with 
no money, and altogether small folk. I should like 
to change places with you.” 


- 


164 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“And yet I regret it,” said 1. My Annt Gainor 
had filled me full of the pride of race. 

I spoke as we approached the group about my 
aunt, and I saw his face take an expression which 
struck me. He had a way of half closing his eyes, 
and letting his jaw drop a little. I saw it often after- 
ward. I suspect now that he was dealing intensely 
with some problem which puzzled him. 

He seemed to me to be entirely unconscious of this 
singular expression of face, or, as at this time, to be 
off his guard ; for the look did not change, although 
I was gazing at him with attention. Suddenly I 
saw come down the green alley, walled with well- 
trimmed box, a fresh vision of her who had been 
riding with me so lately. My cousin also became 
aware of the figure which passed gaily under the 
trees and smiled at us from afar. 

“ By George ! Hugh,” said Arthur, “ who is the 
sylph f what grace ! what grace ! ” 

For a moment I did not reply. She wore a silken 
brocade with little broidered roses here and there, a 
bodice of the same, cut square over a girl-like neck, 
white, and not yet filled up. Her long gloves were 
held up to the sleeve by tightens of plaited white 
horsehair, which held a red rosebud in each tie ; and 
her hair was braided with a ribbon, and set high in 
coils on her head, with but little powder. As she 
came to meet us she dropped a curtsey, and kissed 
my aunt’s hand, as was expected of young people. 

I have tried since to think what made her so un- 
like other women. It was not the singular grace 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 165 


which had at once struck my cousin ; neither was 
she beautiful. I long after hated Miss Chew for an 
hour because she said Darthea Peniston had not one, 
perfect feature. She had, notwithstanding, clear, 
large brown eyes, and a smile which was so vari- 
ously eloquent that no man saw it unmoved. This 
was not all. Her face had some of that charm of 
mystery which a few women possess— a questioning 
look ; but, above all, there was a strange flavour of 
feminine attractiveness, more common in those who 
are older than she, and fuller in bud ; rare, I think, 
in one whose virgin curves have not yet come to 
maturity. What she was to me that summer even- 
ing she was to all men— a creature of many moods, 
and of great power to express them in face and voice. 
She was young, she loved admiration, and could be 
carried off her feet at times by the follies of the 
gay world. 

If you should wonder how, at this distant day, I 
can recall her dress, I may say that one of my aunt’s 
lessons was that a man should notice how a woman 
dressed, and not fail at times to compliment a gown, 
or a pretty fashion of hair. You may see that I had 
some queer schoolmasters. 

I said to my cousin, “ That is Miss Darthea Pen- 
iston.” 

“Darthea,” he repeated. “She looks the name. 
Sad if she had been called Deborah, or some of your 
infernally idiotic Scripture names.” 

He was duly presented, and, I must say, made the 
most of his chances for two days, so that the elder 


1 66 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


dames were amused at Darthea’s conquest, my cousin 
having so far shown no marked preference for any 
one except the elder Miss Franks, who was rich and 
charming enough to have many men at her feet, 
despite her Hebrew blood. 

In truth he had been hit hard that fatal August 
afternoon, and he proved a bold and constant wooer. 
With me it was a more tardy influence which the fair 
Darthea as surely exerted. I was troubled and dis- 
turbed at the constancy of my growing and ardent 
affection. At first I scarce knew why, but by and 
by I knew too well ; and the more hopeless became 
the business, the more resolute did I grow ; this is 
my way and nature. 

During the remaining weeks of summer I saw 
much of Miss Peniston, and almost imperceptibly 
was made at last to feel, for the first time in my life, 
the mysterious influence of woman. Now and then 
we rode with my aunt, or went to see the troops re- 
viewed. I thought she liked me, but it soon became 
only too clear that at this game, where hearts were 
trumps, I was no match for my dark, handsome 
cousin, in his brilliant uniform. 


XII 



N September 1, 1773, and earlier than 
had been meant, my father set sail for 
London with my ever dear mother. 
Many assembled to see the “Fair Trader* 
leave her moorings. I went with my 
people as far as Lewes, and on account of weather 
had much ado to get ashore. The voyage down the 
Delaware was slow, for from want of proper lights 
we must needs lay by at night, and if winds were 
contrary were forced to wait for the ebb. 

While I was with them my father spoke much to 
me of business, but neither blamed my past, nor praised 
my later care and assiduity in affairs. He was sure 
the king would have his way, and, I thought, felt sorry 
to have so readily given up the consigneeship of the 
teas. I was otherwise minded, and I asked what was 
to be done in the event of certain troubles such as 
many feared. He said that Thomas, his old clerk, 
would decide, and my Aunt Gainor had a power of 
attorney ; as to the troubles I spoke of, he well 
knew that I meant such idle disturbances of peace 
as James Wilson and Wetherill were doing their 
best to bring about. 

“Thy Cousin Arthur is better advised,” he said, 

167 


1 68 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ and a man of sound judgment. Thou mightst seek 
worse counsel on occasion of need.” 

I was surprised at this, for I should have believed, 
save as to the king, they could not have had one 
opinion in common. 

Far other were those sweeter talks I had with my 
mother, as we sat on the' deck in a blaze of sunlight. 
She burned ever a handsome brown, without freckles, 
and loved to sit out, even in our great heats. She 
would have me be careful at my aunt’s not to be led 
into idleness ; for the rest I had her honest trust ; and 
her blue eyes, bright with precious tears, declared 
her love, and hopeful belief. I must not neglect my 
French— it would keep her in mind; and she went 
on in that tongue to say what a joy I had been in 
her life, and how even my follies had let her see how 
true a gentleman I was. Then, and never before, 
did she say a thing which left on my mind a fear 
that life had not brought and kept for her through- 
out all the happiness which so good and noble a 
creature deserved. 

“ There is much of thy father in thee, Hugh. Thou 
art firm as he is, and fond of thine own way. This 
is not bad, if thou art thoughtful to see that thy way 
is a good way. But do not grow hard. And when 
thou art come to love some good woman, do not 
make her life difficult.” 

“But I love no woman, ma mere” I cried, “and 
never shall, as I love thee. It is the whole of my love 
thou hast, cliere, cJiere maman ; thou hast it all.” 

“ Ah, then I shall know to divide with her, Hugh $ 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 169 


and I shall be generous too. If thou hast any little 
fancies that way, thou must write and tell me. Oh, 
mon fils , thou wilt write often, and I must know 
all the news. I do hear that Darthea Peniston is in 
thy aunt’s house a good deal, and Madam Ferguson, 
the gossip, would have me believe thou carest for her, 
and that Arthur Wynne is taken in the same net. I 
liked her. I did not tell thee that thy Aunt Gainor 
left her with me for an hour while she went into 
King street to bargain for a great china god. What 
a gay, winning creature it is ! She must needs tell 
me all about herself. Why do people so unlock 
their hearts for me?” 

I laughed, and said she had a key called love ; and 
on this she kissed me, and asked did I say such pretty 
things to other women ? Darthea was now to live 
with her aunt, that stiff Mistress Peniston, who was 
a fierce Tory. “ She will have a fine bargain of the 
girl. She has twenty ways with her, real or false, 
and can make music of them all like a mocking-bird. 
Dost thou like her, Hugh?— I mean Darthea.” 

I said, “Yes.” 

“ And so do I,” she ran on. “ I loved her at sight. 
But if ever thou dost come to love her— and I see 
signs, oh, I see signs— if ever,— then beware of thy 
Cousin Wynne. I heard him once say to thy father, 
1 If there is only one glass of the Madeira left, I want 
it, because there is only one/ And there is only one 
of a good woman. What another wants that man 
is sure to want, and I do not like him, Hugh. Thou 
dost, I think. He has some reason to linger here. 


lyo Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Is it this woman ? Or would he spy out the land to 
know what we mean to do ? I am sure he has orders 
to watch the way things are going, or why should not 
he have gone with Sir Guy Carleton to Quebec ? It 
is a roundabout way to go through Philadelphia.” 

I said I did not know ; but her words set me to 
thinking, and to wondering, too, as I had not done 
before. Another time she asked me why Arthur 
talked so as to disgust my father out of all idea of 
going to see the home of his ancestors. I promised 
to be careful of my relations with my cousin, whom 
I liked less and less as time ran on. 

At Lewes we parted. Shall I ever forget it? 
Those great blue eyes above the gunwale, and then 
a white handkerchief, and then no more. When I 
could no longer see the ship’s hull I climbed a great 
sand-dune, and watched even the masts vanish on 
the far horizon. It was to me a solemn parting. 
The seas were wide and perilous in those days, the 
buccaneers not all gone, and the trading ship was 
small, I thought, to carry a load so precious. 

As the sun went down I walked over the dunes, 
which are of white sand, and forever shifting, so as 
at one time to threaten with slow burial the little 
town, and at another to be moving on to the forest. 
As they changed, old wrecks came into view, and I 
myself saw sticking out the bones of sailors buried 
here long ago, or haply cast ashore. A yet stranger 
thing I beheld, for the strong northwest wind, which 
blew hard all day and favoured the “Fair Trader,” had 
so cast about the fine sand that the buried snow of 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 171 


last winter was to be seen, which seemed to me a 
thing most singular. When I told Jack, he made 
verses about it, as he did sometimes, but would 
show them only to me. I forget entirely what 
he wrote; how a man can make verses and dig 
rhymes out of his head has always been to me a 
puzzle. 

At the town inn, “ The Lucky Fisherman,” I saw, 
to my surprise, Jack on horseback, just arrived. He 
said he had a debt to collect for his father. It was 
no doubt true, for Jack could not tell even the 
mildest fib and not get rose -red. But he knew how 
I grieved at this separation from my mother, and, I 
think, made an occasion to come down and bear me 
company on my long ride home. I was truly glad to 
have him. Together we wandered through the great 
woodlands Mr. Penn had set aside to provide fire- 
wood forever for the poor of Lewes. 

The next day we sent Tom on ahead with our sacks 
to Newcastle, where we meant to bait ourselves and 
our horses. But first we rode down the coast to 
Rehoboth, and had a noble sea-bath j also above the 
beach was a bit of a fresh- water lake, most delicious 
to take the salt off the skin. After this diversion, 
which as usual dismissed my blue devils, we set out 
up the coast of the Bay of Delaware, and were able 
to reach Newcastle that evening, and the day after 
our own homes. 

This ride gave us a fine chance for talk, and we 
made good use of it. 

As we passed between the hedges and below the 




IJ2 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


old Swede church nigh to Wilmington, Jack fell into 
talk of Darthea Peniston. Why we had not done so 
before I knew not then; we were both shy of the 
subject. I amused myself by insisting that she was 
but a light-minded young woman with no strong 
basis of character, and too fond of a red coat. It 
did amuse me to see how this vexed Jack, who 
would by no means accept my verdict. We con- 
versed far longer on the stormy quarrels of the 
colonies and their stepmother England, who seemed 
to have quite forgot of what blood and breed they 
were. 

Concerning my Cousin Wynne, with whom at first 
I had been much taken, Jack was not inclined to 
speak freely. This I foolishly thought was because 
Arthur laughed at him, and was, as he knew, of 
some folks’ notion that Jack was a feminine kind of 
a fellow. That he had the quick insight and the 
heart of a woman was true, but that was not all of 
my dear Jack. 

My aunt came back to town early in September, 
and I took up my abode in her town house, where a 
new life began for me. Letters went and came at long 
intervals. Our first reached me far on in October. 

My mother wrote : u There is great anger here in 
London because of this matter of the tea. Lord 
Germaine says we are a tumultuous rabble; thy 
father has been sent for by Lord North, and I fear 
has spoken unadvisedly as to things at home. It is 
not well for a wife to differ with her husband, and 
this I will not; nevertheless I am not fully of his 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 173 

way of thinking as to these sad troubles ; this, how- 
ever, is not for any eye or ear but thine. Benjamin 
Franklin was here to see us last week. He seems to 
think we might as well, or better, pay for the tea, 
and this suited thy father • but after thus agreeing 
they went wide apart, Franklin having somewhat 
shed his Quaker views. I did fear at times that the 
talk would be strong. 

“ When he had gone away, thy father said he never 
had the Spirit with him, and was ever of what creed 
did most advantage him, and perhaps underneath of 
none at all. But this I think not. He hath much 
of the shrewd wisdom of New England, which I like 
not greatly ; but as to this, I know some who have 
less of any wisdom, and, after all, I judge not a man 
so wise, and so much my elder. 

u General Gage, lately come hither on a visit, we 
are told assured the king that no other colony would 
stand by Massachusetts, and that four regiments 
could put an end to the matter. I am no politician, 
but it makes me angry to hear them talk of us as if 
we were but a nursery of naughty children. It seems 
we are to pay for the tea, and until we do no ships 
may enter Boston harbour. Also all crown officers 
who may commit murder are to be tried in England ; 
and there is more, but I forget.” 

This was most of it fresh news to us. Meanwhile 
Hutchinson, the governor of the rebel State, was 
assuring Lord North that to resist was against our 
interest, and we, being “ a trading set,” would never 
go to extremes. “ As if,” said Wilson, “ nations, like 


174 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


men, had not passions and emotions, as well as day- 
books and ledgers.” 

Meanwhile at home our private affairs were rapidly 
wound up and put in good condition. My father 
found it difficult to collect his English debts, and so 
had to limit his purchases, which we stowed as they 
came over, declining to sell. As business failed, I 
was more and more at leisure, and much in the com- 
pany of my cousin, whom to-day I disliked, and to- 
morrow thought the most amusing and agreeable of 
companions. He taught me to shoot ducks at League 
Island, and chose a good fowling-piece for me. 

On Sundays I went to hear my aunt’s friend, the 
Rev. Mr. White, preach at Christ Church, and would 
not go to Meeting, despite Samuel Wetherill, whose 
Society of Free Quakers did not come to life until 
1780. Meanwhile by degrees I took to wearing finer 
garments. Cards I would never touch, nor have I 
often, to this day. 

One morning, long after my parents left, my Aunt 
Gainor looked me over with care, pleased at the 
changes in my dress, and that evening she presented 
me with two fine sets of neck and wrist ruffles, and 
with paste buckles for knees and shoes. Then she told 
me that my cousin, the captain, had recommended 
Pike as a fencing-master, and she wished me to take 
lessons ; 11 for,” said she, “ who knows but you may 
some day have another quarrel on your hands, and 
then where will you be ? ” 

I declared that my father would be properly furi- 
ous ; but she laughed, and opened and shut her fan, 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 175 


and said he was three thousand miles away, and that 
she was my guardian, and responsible for my educa- 
tion. I was by no means loath, and a day later went 
to see the man with my Cousin Arthur, who asked, as 
we went, many questions about my mother, and then 
if my father had left England, or had been to Wyn- 
cote. 

I had, as he spoke, a letter in my pocket writ in 
the neat characters I knew so well ; our clerk com- 
ing from New York had just given it to me, and as 
I had not as yet read it, liking for this rare pleasure 
to taste it when alone, I did not mention it to my 
cousin. I told him I was sure my father would not 
go to Wales, both because of business, and? for other 
reasons j but I hoped when he came back to get leave 
to be a year away, and then I should be sure to visit 
our old nest. 

My cousin said, “A year— a year,” musingly, and 
asked when my parents would return. 

I said, “About next October, and by the islands,” 
meaning the Madeiras. 

To this Arthur Wynne returned, in an absent fash- 
ion, “ Many things may happen in a year.” 

I laughed, and said his observation could not be 
contradicted. 

, “ What observation ? ” he replied, and then seemed 
so self-absorbed that I cried out : 

“What possesses thee, Cousin Wynne? Thou art 
sad of late. I can tell thee the women say thou art 
in love.” 

“ And if I were, what then ? ” 


176 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


This frankness in a man so mature seemed to me 
odd, when I thought how shy was the growing ten- 
derness my own heart began to hide. His words 
troubled me. It could only be Darthea Pemston. 
After a silence, such as was frequent in my cousin, 
he added, “I fear that blushing friend of yours is 
fluttering about a certain bright candle. A pity 
the lad were not warned. You are my cousin, 
and of course my friend. I may have to go away 
soon, and I may ask you to do a certain thing 
for me when I am gone. No man nor lad shall 
stand in my way, and you must hold your tongue 
too.” 

I was puzzled and embarrassed. I said cautiously, 
“ We shall see.” But as to Jack W arder , I liked not 
what he said, and for two reasons. I knew that, 
living next door to Darthea, he was with her almost 
daily; and here was a new and terrible fear, for 
who could help but love her? Nor could I hear 
with patience Jack so contemptuously put aside as a 
child. 

“ Cousin Arthur,” I said, “thou art mistaken in 
Warder. There is no more resolute or courageous 
man. Jack’s shy ways and soft fashions make him 
seem like a timid girl, but I would advise no one to 
count on this.” I went on, hesitating, “He is an 
older friend than thou, and— holloa, Jack ! ” for 
here was the dear fellow himself, smiling and blush- 
ing; and where had the captain been of late? and 
that awkward left hand was taken, and Jack would 
come with us and see us play with the small sword. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 177 


and would like to go after the ducks to-morrow. He 
seemed happy and pleased to meet us. 

Pike was a little man who had a room among the 
shops on Second street. He wore, as I had often 
seen, a laced cocked hat, and was clad in a red coat, 
such as none wore except creoles from the French 
settlements, or gentlemen from the Carolinas. He had 
the straight figure and aggressive look all men carry 
who teach the sword, and a set belief that no man 
could teach him anything— a small game-cock of a 
fellow, who had lost one eye by an unlucky thrust 
of a foil. 

I will let Jack’s journal, not writ till long after, 
tell the story for a while. He saw more than I at 
the time, even if he understood it all as little. 

“ I saw Hugh strip,” he writes, “ and was amused 
to see Pike feel his muscles and exclaim at his depth 
of chest. Then he showed him how to wear the wire 
mask, while the captain and I sat by and looked on. 

“ Hugh was awkward, but he had a wrist of steel, 
and when once he had caught the ideas of Pike, who 
talked all the time in a squeaky voice, his guard was 
firm. Pike praised him, and said he would learn 
soon. The thing so attracted me that I was fain to 
know how it felt to hold a foil ; and saying as much, 
the captain, who fenced here daily, said : i It is my 
breathing-time of day, as Prince Hamlet says. By 
George ! you should see Mr. Garrick in that fencing 
scene ! I will give Mr. W arder a lesson. I have rather 
a fancy for giving young men lessons.’ 

“In a minute I saw my foil fly six feet away 
12 


178 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


with such a wrench of the wrist as made my arm 
tingle. 

“ 4 Hold the foil lightly. Not so stiff/ said Pike, and 
we began again. Of course I was as a child before 
this man, and again and again he planted a button 
where he pleased, and seemed, I thought, to lunge 
more fiercely than is decent, for I was dotted with 
blue bruises that evening. 

“ At last I gave up, and the captain and Pike took 
the foils, while we sat and watched them. He was 
more than a match for Pike, and at last crying, 
‘ Take care ! here is a botte you do not know/ caught 
him fair in the left chest. 

“ 4 By George ! Mr. Wynne, that is a pretty piece 
of play ! I remember now Major Montresor tried to 
show it to me. He said it was that way you killed 
Lord Charles Trevor.’ 

“ I was shocked to know he had killed a man, and 
Hugh looked up with his big mother-eyes, while the 
captain said coolly : 

“‘Yes; a sad business, and about a woman, of 
course. It is dreadful to have that kind of a dispo- 
sition, boys, that makes you dangerous to some one 
who wants what you want. He was very young too. 
A pity ! a pity ! ’ 

“ Hugh and I said nothing ; but I had the odd no- 
tion that he was threatening us. One gets these 
ideas vaguely in youth, and sometimes after-events 
justify them. However, the fancy soon took me to 
fence with Hugh in his room, for I dared not risk 
asking my father’s leave. As Hugh got his lessons 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 179 


both from Pike and the captain, and became very 
expert, I got on pretty nearly as fast as he. 

“ At times we practised in our shirt-sleeves in the 
garden at Miss Wynne’s, or fenced with Gray don, 
who was later the most expert small sword we had 
in the army. Hugh soon became nearly as skilful, 
but I was never as clever at it.” 

One day we were busy, as Jack has described, when 
who should come out into the garden but Mistress 
Wynne and Darthea, and behind them the captain. 
We dropped our points, but Miss Peniston cried out, 
“ Go on ! go on ! ” and, laughing, we fell to again. 

Presently I, a bit distracted, for I was facing 
Darthea’s eyes, felt Jack’s foil full on my chest. 
Darthea clapped her hands, and, running forward, 
would pin a bunch of red ribbons she took from her 
shoulder on Jack’s sleeve. Jack fell back, as red as 
the ribbons, and my aunt cried out, “ Darthea, you 
are too forward ! ” 

The young woman flushed, and cast down the bow, 
and as Arthur Wynne bent to pick it up set her foot 
on it. I saw the captain rise, and stand with the half- 
shut eyes and the little drop of the jaw I have already 
mentioned. My aunt, who liked the girl well, went 
after her at once as she left us in a pet to return to 
the house. I saw my aunt put a hand on her shoul- 
der, and then the captain, looking vexed, followed 
after. An hour later I went to look for the ribbon. 
It was gone, and for years I knew not where, till, 
in a little box in Jack’s desk, I came upon it neatly 
tied up. 


180 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Young as I was, I began to see that here were 
Captain Wynne, and possibly my friend, in the toils 
of a girl,— she was but seventeen, — and I, alas! no 
better off ; but of this I breathed not a word to any. 
Jack hung about her and fell back when any less 
shy man wanted his place. I felt that he was little 
likely to have his way, and that neither he nor I 
had much chance in such a game against a man like 
my cousin. He had played with hearts before, and 
the maid listened like Desdemona to this dark-browed 
soldier when he talked of courts and kings, and far- 
away Eastern battles, and the splendour of the Orient. 
My aunt, whom nothing escaped, looked on much 
amused. Perhaps she did not take as serious the 
love-affairs of lads like Jack and me. We were like 
enough to have a dozen before we were really cap- 
tured. That I was becoming at twenty-one more 
thoughtful and resolute than far older people, she did 
not see, and she was sometimes vexed at my sober 
ways. I was at times gay enough, but at others she 
would reproach me with not taking more pains to 
please her guests. Society, she said, had duties as well 
as pleasures. My friend Jack no one fully understood 
in those days, nor knew the sweet manhood and the 
unselfishness that lay beneath his girl-like exterior. 

One day, late in November, my aunt and I were, 
for a wonder, alone, when she dropped the cards with 
which she was playing, and said to me : “ Hugh, there 
is something serious between that mischievous kitten 
and your cousin. They are much talked of. If you 
have a boy-fancy that way, get rid of it. I don’t see 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 1 8 1 


through the man. He has been telling her about the 
fine house at Wyncote, and the great estate, and how 
some day he will have it, his elder brother being far 
gone in a phthisis.” 

“ There must be some mistake,” I said. “Thou 
knowest what he told my father.” 

“Yes; I don’t like it,” she went on; “but the girl 
is caught. He talks of soon having to join Sir Guy 
Carleton in Canada. And there is my dear girl-boy 
trapped too, I fear. But, really, he is such a child 
of a fellow it hardly matters. How many does she 
want in her net ? The fish may squabble, I fear. A 
sweet thing she is ; cruel only by instinct ; and so 
gay, so tender, so truthful and right-minded with 
all her nonsense. No one can help loving her ; but 
to-day she has one mood, and to-morrow another. 
There will be a mad massacre before she is done 
with you all. Run away, Hugh ! run ! Make love 
to Kitty Shippen if you want to get Miss Dar- 
thea.” 

I laughed, but I had little mirth in my heart. 

“ Aunt Gainor,” I said, “ I love that woman, and 
no other man shall have her if I can help it.” 

“ If ? if ? Stuff ! you can’t help it. Don’t be a fool ! 
The sea is full of fish. This is news indeed.” 

“The land has but one Darthea,” said I. “I am 
a boy no longer, Aunt Gainor. Thou hast made me 
tell thee, and, now it is out, I may as w'ell say I know 
all about my cousin. He as good as told me, and 
in a way I did not like. The man thinks I am a boy 
to be scared out of going my own way. I have told 


1 82 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


no one else $ but if I can get her I will, and it is no 
laughing matter.” 

“I am sorry, Hugh,” she said. “I knew not it 
was so serious. It is hard to realise that you are no 
more a boy, and must have the sorrows my sex pro- 
vides for you. I like her, and I would help you if I 
could, but you are late.” And she went on shuffling 
the cards, while I took up a book, being inclined to 
say no more. 

That evening two letters came by the New York 
packet. One from my father I put aside. It was 
dated outside, and was written two weeks later than 
my mother’s, which I read first. I opened it with 
care. 

“ My own dear Son : Thy last sweet letter was a 
great refreshment to me, and the more so because I 
have not been well, having again my old ache in the 
side, but not such as need trouble thee. I blush to 
hear the pretty things thy letters say ; but it is love 
that holds thy pen, and I must not be too much set 
up in my own esteem. How much love I give thee 
in return thou knowest, but to pay in this coin will 
never beggar us. I love thee because thou art all I 
can desire, and again because thou lovest me, and 
again for this same dear reason which is all I can 
say to excuse my mother-folly. Thy father is well, 
but weary of this great town ; and we both long to 
be at home.” 

Then there was more about my Aunt Wynne, and 
some woman-talk for her friends about the new 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 183 


fashions, which do not concern her, she being not of 
this world. “ Am I not ? ” she says. “ 1 love it all— 
the sea, even the sea, and flowers, and our woods, 
and, dear me ! also gay gowns. I hope the last I 
got here will not disturb the Meeting, and my new 
muff,— very big it is,— and a green joseph to ride in. 
I mean to ride with thee next spring often— often.” 
And so on, half mother, half child, with bits of her 
dear French, and all about a new saddle for me, and 
silver spurs. The postscript was long. 

“ I saw last week a fair Quaker dame come out of 
Wales. I asked her about the Wynnes. She knew 
them not, but told me of their great house, and how it 
was a show-place people went to see, having been done 
over at great cost ; and how a year or two since coal 
was found on the estate, and much iron, so that these 
last two years they were rich, and there was some 
talk of making the present man a baronet. Also 
that the elder brother is ill, nigh to death. It seems 
strange after what thy cousin said so often. Thy 
father is away in Holland. I will tell him when he 
is come back. Be cautious not to talk of this. I 
never liked the man.” 

I sat back in my chair to read it all over again, first 
giving my aunt my father’s letter. In a few minutes 
I heard a cry, and saw my aunt, pale and shaken, 
standing up, the letter in her hand. 

“ My God!” I cried, “what is it? Is ip my 
mother ? ” 

“ Yes, yes ! ” she said. “ Be strong, my boy ! She 
is— dead ! ” 


184 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


For a moment I saw the room whirl, and then, as 
my Aunt Gainor sat down, I fell on my knees and 
buried my face in her lap. I felt her dear old hands 
on my head, and at last would have the letter. It 
was brief. 

“ My Son : The hand of God has fallen heavily 
upon me. Thy mother died to-day of a pleurisy 
which none could help. I had not even the conso- 
lation to hear her speak, since, when I came from 
Holland, she was wandering in talk of thee, and 
mostly in French, which I know not. I seek to find 
God’s meaning in this chastisement. As yet I find 
it not. It is well that we should not let bereave- 
ments so overcome us as to make us neglect to be 
fervent in the business of life, or to cease to praise 
Him who has seen fit to take away from us that 
which it may be we worshipped as an idol. What 
more is to say I leave until I see thee. My affairs 
are now so ordered that I may leave them. I shall 
sail in a week for home in the ship in which I came 
out, and shall not go, as I did mean, to the islands.” 

It seemed to me, as I read and re-read it, a cold, 
hard letter. I said as much to my aunt some days 
after this ; but she wisely urged that my father was 
ever a reticent man, who found it difficult to let even 
his dearest see the better part of him. 

I have no mind to dwell on this sad calamity. I 
went to and fro, finding neither possibility of repose 
nor any consolation. I saw as I rode, or lay in my 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 185 


boat, that one dear face, its blue-eyed tenderness, its 
smile of love. I could never thus recall to sight any 
other of those who, in after-years, have left me ; but 
this one face is here to-day as I write, forever smiling 
and forever young. 

And so time ran on, and nigh to Christmas day 
my father came home. The weather was more niilu 
than common, and his ship met no delay from ice. I 
joined him off Chester Creek. He was grayer, older, 
I thought, but not otherwise altered, having still his 
erect stature, and the trick I have myself of throw- 
ing his head up and his shoulders back when about 
to meet some emergent occasion. I saw no sign of 
emotion when we met, except that he opened and shut 
his hands as usual when disturbed. He asked if I 
were well, and of my Aunt Gainor, and then, amid 
the tears which were choking me, if I were satisfied 
as to the business, and if the tea had arrived. I 
said yes, and that the ship had been sent away with- 
out violence. He said it was a silly business, and 
the king would soon end it ; he himself had been too 
hasty — with more to like effect. 

It seemed to me while we talked as though he had just 
come from my mother’s death-bed, whereas a long time 
had elapsed, and he had been able to get over the first 
cruel shock. My own grief was still upon me, and I 
wondered at his tranquillity. A little later he said : 

“ I see thou hast taken to the foolishness of black 
garments. This is thy aunt’s doings.” In fact, it was 
her positive wish. I made no reply, but only looked 
him in the face, ready to cry like a clnid. 


1 86 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ Why hast thou no answers, Hugh ? Thy tongue 
used to be ready enough. Thou hast thy mother's 
eyes. I would thou hadst them not.” 

This was as near as he ever came to speech of 
her, whom, to my amazement, he never again men- 
tioned. Was it a deeper feeling than I knew, that so 
silenced him, or did he wish to forget her ? I know 
not. Some deal thus with their dead. He bade my 
aunt take away my mother's clothes, and asked no 
questions as to how she disposed of them ; nor for a 
month did he desire my return home. 

What then passed between him and my Aunt 
Gainor I do not know ; but he said nothing more of 
my dress, although I wore mourning for six months. 
Nor did he say a word as to my exactness and indus- 
try, which was honestly all they should have been. At 
meals he spoke rarely, and then of affairs, or to 
blame me for faults not mine, or to speak with cold 
sarcasm of my friends. 

Except for Jack, and my Aunt Gainor, and Wilson 
and Wetherill, of whom I saw much, I should have 
been miserable indeed. Captain Wynne still came 
and went, and his strange intimacy with my father 
continued. I thought little of it then, and for my 
own part I liked to hear of his adventurous life, but 
the man less and less ; and so the winter of '73 and 
'74 went by with fencing and skating and books, 
which now I myself ordered to suit me, or found in 
Mr. Logan’s great library, of which I was made free. 

In March my cousin left us for Canada and the 
army. Once I spoke before him of the news in my 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 187 


mother’s postscript ; but he laughed, saying he had 
heard some such rumours, but that they were not 
true. They did not much trouble a hungry beggar 
of a younger son with letters; still if there had 
been such good news he should have heard it. He 
wished it might be so ; and as to his brother, poor 
devil ! he would last long enough to marry and have 
children. Were the ducks still in the river? He 
said no more to me of Darthea, or of what I was to do 
for him, but he found a way at need, I am sure, to get 
letters to her, and that without difficulty. At last, 
as I have said, he was gone to join Sir Guy. I was 
not sorry. 

Mrs. Peniston, Darthea’s aunt, usually talked lit- 
tle, and then of serious matters as if they were 
trivial, and of these latter as if they were of the 
utmost importance. With regard to this matter of 
Darthea and my cousin, she was free of speech and 
incessant, so that all the town was soon assured of the 
great match Darthea would make. The fine house 
at Wyncote grew, and the estate also. Neither Jack 
nor I liked all this, and my friend took it sadly to 
heart, to my Aunt Gainor’s amusement and Mrs. 
Ferguson’s, who would have Dr. Rush set up a ward 
in the new hospital for the broken-hearted lovers of 
Darthea. When first Jack Warder was thus badg- 
ered, he fell into such a state of terror as to what the 
madcap woman would say next that he declined all 
society for a week, and ever after detested the Tory 
lady. 

I became, under the influence of thismuch-talked-of 


1 88 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


news, as mute as Jack j but, while he had only a deep 
desire toward sadness, and to stay away from her 
who had thus defeated his love, I, neither given over 
to despair nor hope, had only a fierce will to have 
my way ; nor, for some reason or for none, did I con- 
sider Jack’s case as very serious,— my aunt it much 
amused,— so little do we know those who are most 
near to us. 

No sooner was the redcoat lover gone awhile 
than, as Miss Chew declared, Darthea put off mourn- 
ing for the absent. Indeed, the pretty kitten began 
once more to tangle the threads of Jack’s life and 
mine. For a month Jack was in favour, and then 
a certain captain, but never I, until one day late in 
April. She was waiting among my aunt’s china for 
her return, and had set the goggle-eyed mandarin to 
nodding, while, with eyes as wide as his, she nodded 
in reply, and laughed like a merry child. 

I stood in the doorway, and watched this delicious 
creature for a minute while she amused herself —and 
me also, although she knew it not. “ Say No ! ” she 
cried out to the great china nobleman ; quite a foot 
high he was. But, despite her pretence at altering 
his unvaried affirmative, it still went on. My lad}' 
walked all around him, and presently said aloud: 
“No ! no ! It must be No ! Say No ! ” stamping a 
foot, as if angry, and then of a sudden running up 
to the mandarin and laughing. “ He has a crack in 
his head. That is why he says Yes ! Yes ! I must be 
a female mandarin, and that is why I say No ! No ! I 
wonder does he talk broken China ? ” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 189 


At this moment she saw my tall black figure in a 
corner mirror, and made some exclamation, as if 
startled ; an instant later she knew it was I, but 
as if by magic the laughing woman was no longer 
there. What I saw as she came toward me was a 
slight, quiet nun with eyes full of tears. 

I was used to her swift changes of mood, but what 
her words, or some of them, meant I knew not ; and 
as for this pitying face, with its sudden sadness, 
what more did it mean ? Major Andre said of her 
later that Mistress Darthea was like a lake in the 
hills, reflecting all things, and yet herself after all. 
But how many such tricksy ways, pretty or vexing, 
she was to show some of us in the years to come did 
not yet appear. 

In a moment I seemed to see before me the small 
dark child I first knew at school. Why was she now 
so curiously perturbed? “Mr. Wynne,” she said, 
“ you never come near me now— oh, not for a month ! 
And to-day your aunt has shown me a part of the 
dear mother’s letter, and— and— I am so sorry for 
you ! I am indeed ! I have long wanted to say so. 
I wish I could help you. I do not think you forget 
easily, and— and— you were so good to me when I 
was an ugly little brat. I think your mother loved 
me. That is a thing to make one think better of 
one’s self. I need it, sir. It is a pretty sort of 
vanity, and how vain you must be, who had so much 
of her love ! ” 

“ I thank thee,” I said simply. Indeed, for a time 
I was so moved that say more I could not. “ I thank 


190 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

thee, Miss Peniston. There is no one on earth whom 
I would rather hear say what thou hast said.” 

I saw her colour a little, and she replied quickly, “ I 
am only a child, and I say what comes to my lips ; I 
might better it often if I stayed to think.” 

“ No ! ” I cried. Whenever she got into trouble— 
and she was ready to note the tenderness in my 
voice— this pretty pretext of the irresponsibility of 
childhood would serve her turn. “No,” said I; “I 
like dearly to hear my mother praised, — who could 
praise her too much?— but when it is thou who 
sayest of her such true things, how shall I tell thee 
what it is to me who love to hear thee talk— even 
nonsense ? ” 

“ I talk nonsense ? Do I ? ” 

“Yes, sometimes. I— want thee to listen to me. 
I have cared for thee—” 

“Now please don’t, Mr. Wynne. They all do it, 
and— I like you. I want to keep some friends.” 

“ It is useless, Darthea. I am so made that I must 
say my say. Thou mayest try to escape, and hate it 
and me, but I have to say I love thee. No, I am not 
a boy. I am a man, and I won’t let thee answer me 
now.” 

“ I do not want to. It would hurt you. You must 
know ; every one knows. It was his fault and my 
aunt’s, all this gossip. I would have kept it quiet.” 

“ It will never be,” I broke out. “ Thou wilt never 
marry that man ! ” I knew when I said this that 
I had made a mistake. I had learned to distrust 
Arthur ; but I had too little that was of moment to 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 191 


say against him to make it wise to speak as I had 
done. I was young in those days, and hasty. 

“ Who ? ” says my lady, all on fire. “ What man ? 
Jack Warder? And why not? I do not know what 
I shall do.” 

“ It is not my dear Jack,” I cried. “ Why dost thou 
trifle with me?” 

“Your dear Jack, indeed! How he blushes! 1 
might ask him. He never would have the courage.” 

“It is my cousin, Arthur Wynne, as thou well 
knowest. And thou art wicked to mock at an honest 
gentleman with thy light talk. Thou dost not know 
the man, this man, my cousin.” 

“ Only a boy would be so foolish or so unfair as to 
speak thus of one behind his back, and to a woman 
too, who — ” And she paused, confused and angry. 

I could not tell her what was only suspicion or 
hearsay as to my cousin’s double statements concern- 
ing his father’s estate, or how either she or we were 
deceived. I had, in fact, lost my head a little, and 
had gone further than was wise. I would n ot explain , 
and I was too vexed to say more than that I would 
say the same to his face. Then she rejoined softly : 

“Tell it to me. You are as mysterious as Miss 
Wynne ; and have I not a right to know ? ” 

“ No,” I said ; “ not now, at least. Thou mayest 
tell him if thou wjlt.” 

“ If I will, indeed ! Every one is against him — you 
and Mistress Wynne and that impudent boy, Jack 
Warder, despite his blushes. Oh, he can be bold 
enough. Isn’t he a dear fellow?” 


192 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

How could one deal with a woman like this? I 
hesitated, and as I did so, not having ready anything 
but sad reproaches of her levity, my aunt appeared 
in the doorway. 

“ Are you two children quarrelling ? ” she said, in 
her outspoken way. “You will have time to repent. 
Here has been your father, sir, to-day, and his affairs 
in Jamaica are all in a nice pickle, and you and the 
old clerk are to up and away in the packet for Kings- 
ton, and that to-morrow.” 

“ Indeed ! ” I cried. I was not sorry. 

“I envy you,” said my lady, as demure as you 
please. “You will fetch me a feather fan, and come 
back soon. I hate all those cornets and captains, and 
now I shall have no one but Jack.” 

My aunt looked on amused. Her news was true 
indeed, and with no chance to talk to any one, except 
to say a mere good-by to Jack, I spent the evening 
with my father and our head clerk over the business 
which took me away so hastily. At early morning 
on a cold day at the close of April, 1774, we were 
gliding down the Delaware with all sail set. 

The voyage was long, the winds contrary. I had 
ample leisure to reflect upon my talk with Darthea. 
I was sure she must have known she was to me not 
as other women. Except for the accident of this 
chance encounter, I might long -have waited before 
finding courage to speak. I had made nothing by it, 
had scarce had an answer, and should, like enough, 
have fallen back into the coldness of relation, by 
which she had so long kept me at a distance. I had 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 193 


been foolish and hasty to speak of my cousin at all ; 
it did but vex her. 

Of my errand in Jamaica there is little to be said. 
My father’s letters were of business only. Of these 
long months and of what went on at home I heard 
but little from him, and with my request to have the 
gazettes he had evidently no mind to comply; nor 
were the chances of letters frequent. I heard, indeed, 
from my aunt but twice, and from Jack thrice; but 
he said nothing of Darthea. Years after I found in 
his record of events : 

“ Hugh left us the last of April. It may be he 
cares too much for that wayward witch, Darthea.” 

I should say that it was at this time or soon after 
my dear friend began to keep a somewhat broken 
diary of events. What he says of former years was 
put on paper long afterward. 

“ If I did but know,” writes Jack, “ that he is se- 
riously taken, I should understand, alas ! what not 
to do. But as to some things Hugh is a silent man. 
I think, as Mr. Wilson says, some men are made for 
friends, and some for lovers. I fear the latter is not 
my role. Is there— can there be— such a thing as 
revering a woman too much to make successful love ? 
I think I see what Darthea is more truly than does 
my dear Hugh. There must come a day when she 
will show it. Sometimes I can hardly trust myself 
with her ; and I yearn to tell her that I alone know 
her, and that I love her. I must watch myself . If 
it really be that Hugh cares for her, and yet I were 
to be the fortunate man, how could I face him again, 


194 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


having had the advantage of his long absence f It 
seems strange that I should ask myself if I am more 
her lover than his friend. He does not talk of her 
to me. 

“It is now September, 74, and Hugh must soon 
return. Mr. Gage is fortifying Boston Neck, and 
we have had the mischievous Boston Port Bill, 
and Virginia up in a rage, which I do not under- 
stand. We, who have our commerce crippled by 
foolish laws, may well be on the side of resistance ; 
but why the planters should put in peril their only 
tobacco market I see less well. A Continental Con- 
gress is to meet here on the fifth day of this month, 
and already the town is alive with gentlemen from 
the South and North. 

“No doubt Darthea has letters from Mr. Arthur 
Wynne. I think Mr. Wilson judges that man cor- 
rectly. He says he is selfish, and more weak as to 
morals than really bad, and that he will be apt to 
yield to sudden temptation rather than to plan de- 
liberate wickedness. Why should he have need 
to plan at all f Mistress Wynne says he does not 
like Hugh. How could any not like my Hugh, and 
how do women see the things which we do not ? 

“ It is sad to see my father’s state of mind. Yes- 
terday he w~as with me to visit Mr. Hancock, very 
fine in a purple velvet coat with gold buttons, and 
a flowered waistcoat. He is our correspondent in 
Boston. My father came home a hot ’Whig ; and to- 
morrow is Meeting-day, and he will be most melan- 
choly, and all for the king if this and that should 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 195 


happen. John Wynne can turn him which way he 
likes. If my Hugh remains of a Whig mind— and 
who less like to change?— he will have a hot time 
with his father, I fear.” 

Is it any wonder 1^ his friend, loved this man? 
He seemed so gentle that all but I, even James 
Wilson, misunderstood him. No more obstinate fel- 
low ever was or will be. I ought to say “ determined,” 
for there was always a reason of head or heart for 
what he would or would not do, and I really think 
that in all his noble life he had but one hour of 
weakness, of which by and by I may have to tell. 


XIII 


WAS to have come home earlier, but in 
June I got letters from my father in- 
structing me to await a vessel which 
would reach Jamaica in June, and sail 
thence to Madeira. There were careful 
instructions given as to purchase of wines, and the 
collection of delayed payments for staves, in the 
wine islands. 

I did not like it, but I was young, and to travel 
had its charm after all. Had there been no Darthea, 
I had been altogether pleased. The excuse of this 
new business made me smile. It was clear my father 
was using that pretext to keep me out of the mischief 
which was involving most young men of courage, and 
creating in them a desire to train as soldiers in the 
organisations which were everywhere being formed. 
He was unwise enough to say that my cousin, from 
whom he had heard, sent his love, and was glad I 
was out of our disloyal and uneasy country. 

There was no help for it, and thus it chanced that 
not until September did I see the red brick houses of 
my native city. Late news I had almost none, for 
none reached me, and I was become wild with desire 
to learn what the summer months had brought forth. 

196 




Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 197 


On the fifth day of September, 1774, at seven in 
the morning, I saw my Jack in a boat come out to 
meet me as we came to anchor in the stream. He 
looked brown and handsome, reddening with joy as 
he made me welcome. All were well, he said. I did 
not ask for Darthea. 

My father was on the slip, and told me that business 
might wait until the evening. My aunt had not been 
well, and would see me at once. This really was all, 
and I might have been any one but his son for what 
there was in his mode of meeting me. I walked with 
J ack to my Aunt Gainor’s, where he left me. I was 
pleased to see the dear lady at her breakfast, in a white 
gown with frills and a lace tucker, with a queen’s 
nightcap such as Lady Washington wore when I first 
saw her. Mistress Wynne looked a great figure in 
white, and fell on my neck and kissed me ; and I must 
sit down, and here were coffee and hot girdle-cakes 
and blueberries, and what not. Did I like Jamaica? 
And had I fetched some fans ? She must have her 
choice ; and rum, she hoped, I had not forgot. How 
well I looked, and my eyes were bluer than ever ! 
Was it the sea had got into them? and so on. 

I asked about the Congress, and she was off in a 
moment. Mr. John Adams had been to see her, and 
that cat, Bessy Ferguson, had been rude to him. An 
ill-dressed man, but clear of head and very positive ; 
and the members from Virginia she liked better. 
Mr. Peyton Randolph had called ; and I would like 
Mr. Pendleton; he had most delightful manners. 
Mr. Livingston had been good enough to remember 


198 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


me, and had asked for me. He thought we must 
soon choose a general, and Mr. Washington had been 
talked of. 

“ Has it come to that ? ” said I. 

“Yes; all the North is up, and Gage has more 
troops and is at work intrenching himself, he who was 
to settle us with three regiments. Mrs. Chew was 
here, and behaved like the lady she is. But they are 
all in a nice mess, Master Hugh, and know not what 
to do. I hate these moderates. Mr. Washington is 
a man as big as your father, and better builded. I 
like him, although he says little and did not so much 
as smile at Bessy Ferguson’s nonsense. And Dar- 
thea— you do not ask about Darthea. She is play- 
ing the mischief with Jack and her captain. She 
will not let me talk about him. He is in Boston with 
Mr. Gage, I hear. Why don’t you tell me about 
yourself ? ” 

“How could I, Aunt Gainor? Thou—” and I 
laughed. 

Then she became grave. “ You will have to declare 
yourself and take side? ; and how can I counsel you 
to resist your father ? You must think it over and 
talk to Mr. Wilson. He is of the Congress. Poor 
Mr. Wetherill the Meeting has a mind to bounce, 
and he takes it hard. Come back at eleven, and 
we will go to Chestnut street, where they meet, 
and see the gentlemen go into the Carpenters’ Hall. 
I came to town on purpose. And now go; I must 
dress.” 

At half -past ten— my aunt very splendid— we drove 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 199 


down Second street and np Chestnut, where was a 
great crowd come to look on. Dr. Rush, seeing my 
aunt’s chariot, got in at Second street, and, being one 
of the members, enabled us to get near to Carpenters’ 
Alley, where at the far end, back from the street, is 
the old building in which the Congress was to be held. 
Jack met us here, and got up beside the coachman. 
I think none had a better view than we. Andrew 
Allen came to speak to us, and then Mr. Galloway, 
not yet scared by the extreme measures of which few 
as yet dreamed, and which by and by drove these and 
many other gentlemen into open declarations for the 
crown. 

I saw James Pemberton looking on sadly, and 
near him other Friends with sour aspects. Here and 
there militia uniforms were seen amid the dull grays, 
the smocks of farmers and mechanics, and the sober 
suits of tradesmen, all come to see. 

“ The Rev. Dr. Duche passed us,” says Jack, whom 
now I quote, “in a fine wig and black silk small- 
clothes. He was to make this day the famous prayer 
which so moved Mr. Adams.” And later, I may 
add, he went over to the other side. “ Soon others 
came. Some we knew not, but the great Dr. Rush 
pointed out such as were of his acquaintance. 

“ ‘ There,’ he said, ‘ is Carter Braxton. He tells 
me he does not like the New England men— either 
their religion or their manners ; and I like them 
both.’ The doctor was cynical, I thought, but very 
interesting. I set down but little of what he said 
or I saw ; for most of it I forget. 


200 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ 1 There is the great Virginia orator, Mr. Patrick 
Henry/ said the doctor. He was in simple dress, 
and looked np at us curiously as he went by with 
Pendleton and Mr. Carroll. ‘ He has a great estate 
—Mr. Carroll,’ said the doctor. ‘I wonder he will 
risk it.’ He wa,s dressed in brown silk breeches, with 
a yellow figured waistcoat, and, like many of them, 
wore his sword. Mr. Franklin was not yet come 
home, and some were late. 

“ Presently the doctor called, and a man in the 
military dress of the Virginia militia turned toward 
us. 1 Colonel Washington,’ said our doctor, ‘will 
permit me to present him to a lady, a great friend 
of liberty. Mistress Wynne, Colonel Washington.’ 

“ ‘ I have already had the honour,’ he said, taking 
off his hat— a scrolled beaver. 

“ 1 He is our best soldier, and we are fortunate that 
he is with us,’ said the doctor, as the colonel moved 
away.” 

The doctor changed his mind later, and helped, I 
fear, to make the trouble which came near to cost- 
ing Conway his life. I have always been a great 
admirer of fine men, and as the Virginia colonel 
moved like Saul above the crowd, an erect, well-pro- 
portioned figure, he looked taller than he really 
was, but, as my aunt had said, was not of the big- 
ness of my father. 

“ He has a good nose,” said my Aunt Gainor, per- 
haps conscious of her own possessions in the way 
of a nasal organ, and liking to*see it as notable in 
another j “ but how sedate he is ! I find Mr. Peyton 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 201 


Randolph more agreeable, and there is Mr. Robert 
Morris and John Dickinson.” 

Then John Adams went by, deep in talk with 
Roger Sherman, whom I thought shabbily dressed ; 
and behind them Robert Livingston, whom my 
aunt knew. Thus it was, as I am glad to remem- 
ber, that I beheld these men who were to be the 
makers of an empire. Perhaps no wiser group of 
people ever met for a greater fate, and surely the 
hand of God was seen in the matter; for what 
other colony— Canada, for example,— had such men 
to show? There, meanwhile, was England, with its 
great nobles and free commons and a splendid story 
of hard-won freedom, driving madly on its way of 
folly and defeat. 

Of what went on within the hall we heard little. 
A declaration of rights was set forth, committees of 
correspondence appointed, and addresses issued to the 
king and people of Great Britain. Congress broke 
up, and the winter went by; Gage was superseded 
by Sir William Howe ; Clinton and Burgoyne were 
sent out, and ten thousand men were ordered to 
America to aid the purposes of the king. 

The cold season was soon upon us, and the event- 
ful year of ’75 came in with a great fall of snow, but 
with no great change for me and those I loved. A 
sullen rage possessed the colonies, and especially Mas- 
sachusetts, where the Regulation Acts were quietly 
disregarded. No counsellors or jurymen would serve 
under the king’s commission. The old muskets of 
the French and Indian wars were taken from the 


202 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


corners and put in order. Men drilled, and women 
cast bullets. 

Failing to corrupt Samuel Adams and Hancock, 
Gage resolved to arrest them at Concord and to seize 
on the stores of powder and ball. “ The heads of trai- 
tors will soon decorate Temple Bar,” said a London 
gazette j and so the march of events went on. In 
the early spring Dr. Franklin came home in despair 
of accommodation ; he saw nothing now to do but to 
fight, and this he told us plainly. His very words 
were in my mind on the night of April 23d of this 
year of ”75, as I was slowly and thoughtfully walk- 
ing over the bridge where Walnut crossed the Dock 
Creek, and where I stayed for a moment to strike flint 
and steel in order to light my pipe. Of a sudden I 
heard a dull but increasing noise to north, and then 
the strong voice of the bell in the state-house. It was 
not ringing for fire. Somewhat puzzled, I walked 
swiftly to Second street, where were men and wo- 
men in groups. I stopped a man and asked what 
had chanced. He said, u A battle ! a battle ! and 
General Gage killed.” Couriers had reached the 
coffee-houses, but no one on the street seemed to 
have more than this vague information ; all were 
going toward Chestnut street, where a meeting was 
to be held, as I learned, and perhaps fuller news 
given out. 

I pushed on, still hearing the brazen clamour of the 
bell. As I crossed High street I came upon James 
Wilson and Mr. Gray don. They stopped me to tell | 
of the great tidings just come by swift post-riders 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 203 

of the fight at Lexington. After giving me the full 
details, Wilson left us. Said Graydon, very serious : 
“Mr. Wynne, how long are you to be in deciding? 
Come and join Mr. Cadwalader’s troop. Few of us 
ride as well as you.” 

I said I had been thinking. 

“ Oh, confound your thinkings ! It is action now. 
Let the bigwigs think.” 

I could not tell a man I then Knew but slightly 
how immense was my reluctance to make this com- 
plete break with the creed of my father, and to abso- 
lutely disobey him, as I knew I must do if I followed 
my inclinations j nor did I incline to speak of such 
other difficulties as still kept me undecided. I said 
at last that if I took up arms it would be with Mac- 
pherson or Cowperthwaite’s Quakers. 

“ Why not ? ” he said. “ But, by George ! man, do 
something ! There are, I hear, many Friends among 
the Cowperthwaite Blues. Do they give orders with 
1 thou ’ and ‘ thee/ I wonder ? ” 

I laughed, and hurried away. The town was al- 
ready in a state of vast excitement, women in tears, 
and men stopping even those they did not know to ask 
for news. I ran all the way to my aunt’s, eager to 
tell it. In the hall I stood a minute to get my breath, 
and reflect. I knew full well, as I recognised vari- 
ous voices, that my intelligence would mean tears 
for some, and joy for others. 

My long-taught Quaker self-control often served 
me as well as the practised calm I observed to be the 
expression assumed by the best-bred officers of the 


204 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

army on occasions that caused visible emotion in 
others. I went in quietly, seeing a well-amused party 
of dames and younger folk, with, over against the 
chimneypiece, the great Benjamin Franklin, now in 
the full prime of varied usefulness, a benevolent face, 
and above it the great dome of head, which had to me 
even then a certain grandeur. He was talking eagerly 
with Mistress Wynne— two striking figures. 

Mr. Galloway was in chat with his kinsman, Mr. 
Chew. The younger women, in a group, were mak- 
ing themselves merry with my friend Jack, who was 
a bit awkward in a fine suit I had plagued him into 
buying. And what a beauty he was, as he stood, 
half pleased with the teasing, blushing now and then, 
and fencing prettily in talk, as I knew by the laugh- 
ter ! At the tables the elder women were gambling, 
and intent on their little gains and losses, while the 
vast play of a nobler game was going on in the 
greater world of men. 

To my surprise, I saw among the guests an Eng- 
lish lieutenant. I say “ to my surprise,” for the other 
officers had gone of their own accord, or had been 
ordered to leave by the Committee of Safety. This 
one, and another, were, as I learned afterward, on 
their way through the town to join General Gage. 
There was evidently some dispute as to the cards. 
I heard high-pitched voices, and “ spadille “ basto,” 
“ matador all the queer words of quadrille, their 
favoured game. 

The lieutenant was bending over Mrs. Ferguson’s 
chair. He was a fellow I had seen before and never 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 205 


liked, a vulgar-featured man, too fat for his years, 
which may have been some twenty-eight. He played 
the best hand of all of them, and, as my aunt de- 
clared, that was quite enough ; for the rest she could 
keep any man in order. I held back in the gloom 
of the hall, looking at their busy gaiety, and wonder- 
ing what they would say to my news. 

As I went in I heard Woodville, the lieutenant, say, 
“ The king — play the king, Mrs. Ferguson.” 

“No advice ! ” cried Mrs. Galloway. 

“ But I am betting,” said he. “ The king forever ! 
We have won, madam. The king is always in luck.” 

I could not resist saying, “ The king has lost, ladies.” 

My aunt turned, and knew I meant something. I 
suppose my face may have been more grave than my 
words. “ What is it, Hugh ? ” 

“ I have strange news, Aunt Gainor.” 

“ News ? and what ? ” As she spoke the talk ceased, 
and every one looked up. 

“ There has been a fight at Lexington. Major Pit- 
cairn is beat, and my Lord Percy. Th^farmers were 
all up to hinder them as they were cm their way to 
seize our powder, and to take Mr. Hancock. The 
king has lost some three hundred men, and we under 
a hundred.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” said Mr. Galloway. “ But it 
cannot be true.” 

A pause came after, as I said there was no doubt 
of it. 

Dr. Franklin asked if I was sure. I said, “Yes; 
I have it of James Wilson, and the town is already 


206 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

in an uproar over it.” The great philosopher re. 
mained deep in thought a moment, while the women 
sat or stood in fear, or whispering excitement. At 
last he said he must go, and that it was the beginning 
of war, and welcome too. Then he bowed gravely 
and went out. As he left, the stillness which had 
prevailed for a time was broken. 

A dozen questions fell on me from all sides. I 
could only repeat my story, as Jack went by me to 
go out and hear, if possible, more of the news than I 
had to tell. 

At last Mr. Chew said thoughtfully, “ If it be true, 
it is a sad business ; but, really, how can it be, Hugh ? 
How could a lot of farmers, without good arms and 
discipline, put to rout a body of trained men, well 
armed ? ” 

“I think,” said Galloway, “we shall have quite 
another version to-morrow. How does it strike you, 
Mr. Woodville?” 

“Oh, quite absurd,” said the officer. “You may 
reassure yourselves, ladies j such a loss, too, would be 
incredible, even in regular war. I think we may go 
on with our game, Mrs. Ferguson.” He was very 
pompous, but none seemed inclined to take his advice. 

“ And yet I don’t like it,” said a lady of the Tory 
side. 

“ And I do,” said Mistress Wynne. “ It is as good 
news as I have heard this many a day.” 

“ It is nonsense ! ” said the officer ; “ sheer non- 
sense ! You have strange notions, madam, as to 
what is good news. It is only another rebel he.” 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 207 

“ I think not ,” said I, venturing to add that men 
who could kill squirrels would rarely miss a man, 
and that many of the older farmers had fought In- 
dians and French, and had, I suspected, picked off 
the officers. 

“ How horrid ! ” said Darthea. 

Had a stray bullet found my cousin I should not 
have grieved profoundly. 

“You see where all your neutrality and loyalty 
have brought you,” said Mistress Wynne. “I wish 
King George were with Mr. Gage ; he might leam 
wisdom. ’T is but the beginning of a good end.” 

“May I remind you,” said Woodville, very red in 
the face, “ that I am his Majesty’s officer ? ” 

“ No, you may not remind me. A fig for his Maj- 
esty ! ” cried my aunt, now in one of her tantrums. 

“ Shame ! ” cried Mrs. Ferguson, rising, as did the 
rest, some in tears and some saying Mrs. Ferguson 
was right, or the Lord knows what-not at all a 
pleasant scene; the men very silent, or vexed, or 
troubled. 

My Aunt Gainor, as they filed out, made them 
each her finest curtsey. Darthea stood still, looking 
grave enough. Mr. Woodville, the lieutenant, lin- 
gered, made his adieus very decently, and went out, 
I showing him the way. On the step he said: “I 
do not quarrel with women ; but I have heard that 
in Mistress Wynne’s house, to which, as an officer 
of his Majesty, I cannot submit.” 

“Well?” I said; and my abominable propensity 
to grin got the better of me. 


208 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


11 You seem amused, sir,” he said. 

I was by no means amused. 

“ I suppose you are responsible,” he added. u Miss 
Wynne might have better manners, and her nephew 
more courage. However, I have said what ought to 
be enough with English gentlemen. Good-evening.” 

“I have half a mind to give thee a good honest 
thrashing,” said I. 

“ I dare say. You are big enough, Master Quaker ; 
but I presume that about the weapons common among 
men of honour you know as much as I know of 
making horseshoes.” 

I was now cool enough and angry enough to have 
killed him. “ Thy friend can find me here,” said I. 
“ I trust I shall be able to satisfy thee.” 

With this he went away, and I stood looking after 
his stumpy figure. I was again in a broil, not of my 
making; just a bit of ill luck, for here was a nice 
business. I went in, and was caught on my way 
upstairs by my Aunt Gainor, who called me into 
the sitting-room. 

Still too furious to be prudent, she broke out be- 
fore Darthea. “ Insolent idiots ! I hope I made Mr. 
Galloway understand, and the rest of them too ! I 
trust Bessy Ferguson will never darken my doors 
again ! ” She walked up and down, and at last up- 
set a big mandarin, who came head down on the 
hearth. 

“ I wish he were Mr. Gage ! ” said my aunt, con- 
templating the fragments. 

“ I dare say he was a Tory,” says Darthea, who 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 209 


feared no one. “ And I am a Tory too, Miss Wynne, 
I would have you to know.” 

“ I dare say,” said my aunt ; “ it does n’t matter 
much what you think, or what you are. You had 
some words with that stupid man, sir ; I saw you. He 
looked as if he did not like it. Oh, I heard you, too.” 

I vainly shook my head at her. 

“Are you two going to fight? I am not sorry! 
I wish I could have that cat Ferguson out.” 

“ I hope— oh— I am sure, Mr. Wynne, it cannot be. 
How dreadful ! ” said Darthea. 

“ Nonsense ! ” cried my aunt. “ A man cannot 
stand everything like a woman.” 

I said plainly, seeing how vain my aunt had made 
concealment, that there had been some words, but 
that I trusted no harm would come of it. 

“ But there will ! there will ! ” said Miss Peniston. 

“ Mercy upon us ! ” cried my aunt ; for here was 
Darthea on the floor, and burnt feathers and vinegar 
at hand, servants running about, my aunt ordering 
“ Cut her stay-strings ! ” as I was turned out, hearing 
my aunt declare, “ I do believe she is in love with all 
the men. Is it you or the captain ? What a shame- 
less monkey to tumble all of a heap that way ! It is 
hardly decent. Do go away, you goose ! ’T is a way 
she has Did never you see a woman faint ? ” 

I never did, and I was scared faint myself. What 
between Darthea’s fainting spell, and this quarrel not 
of my seeking, I was uncomfortable enough. I had 
no one but Jack to appeal to ; and here was a pair 
of Quaker lads, just over twenty-two, in a proper 

14 


210 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

scrape. I had not the least intention of getting out 
of it, save in one way. The sneer at my aunt was 
more than I could endure. What my father would 
think was another matter. 

Mr. Wilson used to say : “ When you are in difficul- 
ties dispose of the worst first j” and so I resolved, as I 
must fight the man, and that was the imminent matter, 
to set aside all thought of my parent, until I was done 
with Mr. Woodville. Jack I took for granted, and 
so left a note with the servant asking my opponent’s 
friend to call on Jack at an hour when he was like 
to be alone. Before I could leave to warn him of 
what was on hand my aunt came to me. 

“ I sent that girl home in the chaise. It was her 
fear lest some one may be hurt, but she really has 
no excuse. She talked quite wild as she came to — 
I mean of you and Arthur Wynne— just mere babble. 
And, O Hugh ! I am a drivelling old maid, and have 
taught you all manner of nonsense, and now I have 
got you into trouble. Don’t let him kill you, Hugh. 
Cannot it be stopped? I told Darthea to hold her 
tongue, and I am so miserable, Hugh ; and when I 
think of your dead mother, and all I promised, what 
shall I do ? ” And the kind old lady penitently wept 
over me, as if I were run through already. 

I felt, as you may imagine, the embarrassment and 
doubt a young man feels when about to protest by 
a single act against the creed of conduct which he 
has been taught to follow since he could remember. 
I smiled, too, as I recalled our first school duel, and 
how Jack and I ran away. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


21 1 


My aunt, seeing there was nothing more to be 
done, and having said quite enough, retired, I am 
sure to pray for me, and for herself as the main cause 
of my coming risk. She would have liked to see me 
well out of the affair, but I do believe would not have 
had me excuse myself to my lieutenant, let what 
might occur. Indeed, she did her best to keep Miss 
Darthea from betraying what, but for my aunt’s rash 
outburst, would not have gone beyond those imme- 
diately concerned. 

It was late in the afternoon, when I found Jack 
writing in his father’s house. I must have looked 
grave, for he rose quickly and, coming to meet me, 
set a hand on each of my shoulders— a way he had, 
but only with me. 

“ What is it ? ” he said • “ not the news ? ” 

“ No.” In fact, it- had clean gone out of my mind. 
“I have had trouble with Mr. Woodville, and now 
I must fight him.” And on this I related the whole 
adventure, Jack listening intently. 

“ Thou shouldst have an older man than I, Hugh. 
These affairs may often be mended, I learn, without 
coming to violence.” He seemed a little embarrassed, 
and reddened, hesitating as he spoke, so that, stupidly 
not comprehending him as I should have done, I said 
hastily that the man had insulted my aunt, and that 
there was but one way out of it, but that I could 
try to get some one else, if to act as my friend was 
not to his taste. 

“At this time,” he writes, “when Hugh came so 
near to hurting me, I was really going through in 


212 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


my mind what he had already disposed of in his. At 
Pike’s we heard of nothing but duels. I had long 
been Pike’s pupil. The duel had come to seem to us, 
I fear, the natural and inevitable ending of a quar- 
rel. Such was the belief of my good friend Mistress 
Wynne’s set, and of the officers whose opinions as to 
social matters we had learned to regard as final. 

“And yet the absurdity of two Quaker lads so 
trapped struck me as it did not Hugh. The man 
must surely have thought him older than he was, but 
so did most. I feared that I should not do my friend 
justice ; and then I thought of dear Mistress Gainor, 
whom I now loved, and for whom to lose Hugh 
would be as death in life ; and so, quickly turning it 
over for one mad moment, I wondered if I could 
not someway get this quarrel on to my own shoul- 
ders. When I answered Hugh I riiust have made him 
misunderstand me, or so I think from what he said. 
When he exclaimed he could get some one else, I 
made haste to put myself right. We had little time, 
however, to discuss the matter, for at this moment 
came a Captain Le Clere with Hugh’s note. 

“Hugh was now in one of his quiet, smiling 
moods, when from his face you would have said 
there was some jest or wager in question, and from 
his talk, which had a kind of intensity of distinct 
articulation, that it was, as I thought it, most serious. 
He was coldly civil to Mr. Le Clere, and to me apart 
said, ‘Small swords, and the governor’s woods by 
the spring,’ as if he were arranging a quite familiar 
and every-day anair 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 213 


“ I frankly declared that I was new to an office of 
this kind, and must trust to Mr. Le Clere’s honour 
and courtesy. He seemed pleased at this, and thought 
a pity of so young a man to have such a difficulty, 
expressing his hopes of accommodation, which I 
knew Hugh too well to think possible. 

u As soon as we had arranged the needed prelimi- 
naries, and Mr. Le Clere had gone, I went to borrow 
small swords of Pike, arranging to come for them 
after dark. Duels were common enough even in our 
Quaker town, especially among gentlemen of his 
Majesty’s service. Although illegal, so strongly was 
it felt that for certain offences there was no other 
remedy possible, that it was difficult to escape the 
resort to weapons if those involved were of what we 
who are of it like to call the better class. 

“At daybreak Hugh and I were waiting in the 
woods where— near to what Mr. Penn meant as a 
public square, a little east of Schuylkill-Eighth 
street— was an open space, once a clearing, but now 
disused, and much overgrown. We were first on the 
ground, and I took occasion to tell Hugh of Pike’s 
counsels — for he had at once guessed what we were 
about— to watch his opponent’s eyes, and the like. 
Hugh, who was merry, and had put aside such 
thoughts of the future as were troubling me, de- 
clared that it was the mouth a man should watch, 
which I think is the better opinion. I said, of course, 
nothing of what Pike told me as to Mr. Woodville 
being a first-rate player, and only advised my friend 
to be cautious. 


214 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“Mr. Woodville, who came with Le Clere and 
a surgeon, was a short lump of a man, and an 
odd contrast to his friend, who was long and lank. 
The pair of them looked like Don Quixote and his 
squire. The short man I felt quite confident Hugh 
could handle, and was surprised, seeing his build, 
that Pike should have declared him a good blade. 
Mr. Le Clere was very civil, and I followed his di- 
rections, knowing, as I have said, but little of such 
affairs. 

“ Our men being stripped to the shirt, and ready, 
Mr. Le Clere and I drew away some twenty feet. 
Then, to my surprise, the lean officer said to me, 
‘Mr. Warder, shall I have the honour to amuse you 
with a turn ? Here are our own swords of a length, 
as you see.’ 

“ I was anything rather than amused. I had heard 
of this foolish English custom of the friends also en- 
gaging. I knew that it was usual to make the offer, 
and that it was not needful to accept ; but now, as I 
saw my Hugh standing ready with his sword upon 
the ground, I began to shake all over, and to colour. 
Such hath always been my habit when in danger, 
even from my boyhood. It is not because I am 
afraid. Yet, as it seems to another like fear, to feel 
it sets me in a cold rage, and has many times, as on 
this occasion, led me into extremes of rashness. 

“I suppose Mr. Le Clere saw my condition, and 
unhappily let loose on his face a faint smile. ‘At 
your service/ I said, and cast off my coat. 

“ ‘ It is not necessary, sir/ he replied, a bit ashamed 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 215 


to engage a fellow like me, who shook and blushed, 
and looked to be about seventeen. 

ul We are losing time,’ said I, in a fury, not over- 
sorry to be thus or in any way distracted from Hugh’s 
peril. In truth, I need have had small fear for him. 
For two years Hugh and I had fenced almost daily, 
and what with Pike and Arthur Wynne, knew most 
of the tricks of the small sword. 

“The next moment Le Clere cried, ‘On guard, 
gentlemen ! ’ and I heard the click of the blades 
as they met. I had my hands full, and was soon 
aware of Le Clere’s skill. I was, however, as agile 
as a cat, and he less clever with his legs than his 
arm. Nor do I think he desired to make the affair 
serious. In a few minutes— it seemed longer— I 
heard an oath, and, alarmed for Hugh, cast a glance 
in his direction. I saw his foe fall back, his sword 
flying some feet away. My indiscretion gave my 
man his chance. His blade caught in my rolled- 
up sleeve, bent, and, as I drove my own through his 
shoulder, passed clean through the left side of my 
neck. With a great jet of blood, I fell, and for a 
little knew no more.” 

This account from Jack’s journal is a better state- 
ment of this sad business than I could have set down. 
I saw with horror Jack and Le Clere salute, and then 
was too full of business to see more, until I had dis- 
armed Mr. Woodville, badly wounding his sword* 
hand, a rare accident. And here was my Jack 
dead, as I thought. I think I can never forget 
that scene ; Mr. Le Clere, gaunt and thin, lifting his 


2i 6 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


late foe, the surgeon kneeling and busy, my own 
man hot and wrathful, cursing like mad, and wrap- 
ping his hand about with a handkerchief, clearly in 
pain, and I waiting for the word of death or life. 

At last the doctor said, “It is bad— bad, but not 
fatal. How came it, Le Clere? You told me that 
neither you nor Mr. Woodville meant anything 
serious.” 

I was kneeling by Jack, and was not intended to 
hear what all were too hot and excited to guard by 
bated breath. 

“ Damn it, doctor ! ” returned Le Clere. “ It is no 
use to talk. I never imagined that youngster would 
take me at my word.” 

“ You will be in hot water here,” said the doctor. 
“ 1 would advise you to get away, and soon.” 

“And we shall supply amusement to every mess 
in the army,” said Woodville, with an abundance of 
bad language. “ Quakers indeed ! ” 

Jack’s eyes opened, and he said, “ Thou art not 
hurt, Hugh?” 

“ No, no ! ” I answered, and, relieved a little, turned 
to Mr. Le Clere : “We shall, I fear, have to ask thy 
chaise of thee. We came afoot. I will send it back 
at once.” 

Le Clere said, “ Of course ; with all my heart.” 

“ Thou wilt pardon me,” said I, “ if I advise thee 
to accept the doctor’s advice, and get away with all 
speed. I should be sorry if thou wert arrested. The 
feeling against gentlemen of thy profession is un- 
happily strong just now.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 217 

Le Clere looked me over with a quick glance of 
something like curiosity, and said, as he gave his 
hand, “You are a gallant gentleman, Mr. Wynne. 
You will permit an older man to say so. I trust we 
may meet again. Are all Quakers as clever at sword- 
play ? ” 

I said a civil word, seeing Jack smile as he lay 
with my bloody coat under his head. Then, as I re- 
membered that perhaps Mr. Woodville might not be 
satisfied, I went up to him and said, “I am at thy 
service, sir, if thou art not contented to let us be quit 
of this matter.” 

“It must needs rest now,” he replied. ‘'Damn 
your tricks ! ” 

“ Sir ! ” said I. 

“ Holloa ! ” says Le Clere ; “ this won’t do. Keep 
your temper. This way, Mr. Wynne.” And he drew 
me aside. 

It was full time ; I was beginning to get my blood 
up, and was in a rage. 

“ This comes,” he said, “ of going out with a fellow 
that has risen from the ranks. Why do your ladies 
receive every one who wears a red coat? Let me 
help you with your friend. I am most sorry. For 
my share, I have a neat reminder in the shoulder. 
Mr. Warder has the wrist of a blacksmith”— which 
was true, and for good reason. 

There is no need to tell of the wu-ath and incapacity 
of poor Jack’s father. I got away as soon as Dr. 
Rush arrived, and, promising to return in an hour, 
went off with a smile from my Jack, and a * Thank 


2i 8 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


God ! Hugh, that it was not thou who had the worst 
of it.” 

It was about seven as I knocked at my aunt’s 
door, and, passing the black page, ran upstairs. 
My aunt was in the breakfast-room ; she came to 
meet me in a morning gown, and to my astonishment 
was very tranquil, but with eyes that looked anxious, 
and far more red than common. 

“ Sit down, sir. I want to hear about this ridicu- 
lous business.” 

“ It may seem so to thee,” said I ; “ I am glad if it 
amuses thee.” 

“Stuff! Talk decent English, man. That was 
like your father. Is— are you— is any one hurt?” 

I said that was what we went f«r, and so told her 
the whole sorry business. 

“ And it was for me, sir ! ” she cried ; “ for me ! 
And my dear brave girl-boy ! Is it dangerous ? ” 

I hoped not. We had both left our marks on the 
English officers. That she liked. Then she was silent 
awhile. 

“ Here is come a note from the kitten. Will you 
have it ? It may be all you will ever get of her. She 
says she has held her tongue ; I can’t— I don’t believe 
her— and asks me to let her know if any are hurt. 
I will. Does she suppose gentlemen go out just to 
look at one another ? Ridiculous ! ” 

I spoke at last of my father; of how he would 
take this matter, of his increasing acerbity, and of 
my own unhappy life, where I found nothing to re- 
place my mother’s love. My last disaster and poor 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 219 


Jack’s wound seemed like enough to widen the gap 
between me and my parent, and my Aunt Gainor 
was troubled. 

“You must be first to tell him,” said my aunt. “ I 
think he will say but little. He has given you up 
as a sheep lost in the darkness of iniquity, and too 
black to be found easily.” 

I begged her not to jest. I was sore and sick at 
heart. 

“ Eat your breakfast,” she said, “ and get it over 
with your father.” 

I hurried through the meal, and went upstairs, 
to find my sleeve full of blood, although no harm 
had been done but what was easily set right by what 
Dr. Rush called a bit of diachylon plaster. (I think 
I spell it correctly.) 

As I went by Darthea’s home I cast a glance up 
at the open window, and saw my lady looking out. 
She was pale, and as she called to me I could not 
but go in, for, indeed, she ran herself to open the 
door. 

“ Come in ! Oh, just a moment ! ” she cried. “ Your 
aunt has written me a note, and it tells me almost 
nothing— nothing.” 

I was in no very kindly humour with MissDarthea. 
Since our talk about my cousin she had been very 
high and mighty, and would have little to say to me 
except unpleasant things about the angry politics of 
the day. I said I was glad to have heard she had 
told no one of what my aunt’s rash speech had let 
slip. I had better have held my own tongue. Darthea 


220 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


was in another mood to-day, and all at once became 
:piiet and dignified. 

a I gave my word, Mr. Wynne. When yon know 
me better you will learn that I can keep it. Is— is 
Mr. Warder much hurt?” 

“ Yes,” I said ; “ he is in great peril.” I saw how 
anxious she was, and was vexed enough to want to 
hurt her. 

“ Oh, you men ! you men ! ” she cried. “ Will he 
die, do you think ? Poor boy ! ” She sat down and 
began to cry. u He must not die j why did you lead 
him into such wicked trouble ? ” 

It was vain to explain how little I had to do with 
the matter. Did she love Jack? I little knew in 
those days how tender was this gentle heart, how it 
went out, tendril-like, seeking it knew not what, and 
was for this reason ever liable to say too much, and 
to give rise to misapprehension. 

“ O Darthea ! ” I cried. “ Dost thou love my Jack ? 
I shall be the last to come in his way. I have said 
I love thee myself, and I can never change. But 
how can it be ? how can it be ? And my cousin ? O 
Darthea ! ” 

“ I love no one, sir. I love everybody. I— I think 
you are impertinent, Mr. Wynne. Is it your business 
whom I love ? My God ! there is blood on your hand ! 
Are you hurt ? ” 

It was true ; a little blood was trickling down my 
wrist. She was all tenderness again. I must not go ; 
here was her handkerchief ; and so on— till I longed 
to take her in my arms, she made me so sorry for her 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


22 1 


I said it was of no moment, and I mnst go. 

“You will come soon again, and tell me about Jack ” 

I went away, not wondering that all the world 
should love her. 

I hastened to Jack’s home, and there found Dr. 
Rush and Dr. Glentworth, who was later to be the 
physician of Mr. Washington. My aunt, preceding 
me, had taken possession. Mr. Warder was re- 
duced to a condition of abject obedience, and for a 
month and more my aunt hardly left her girl-boy’s 
pillow. Indeed, it was long before I was let to see 
him, and then he was but a spectre of himself, with 
not enough blood to blush with. Our officers very 
promptly left for New York the day after our fight, 
and we heard no more of them. 

It would have been of little use to tell this long 
story but for the consequences to me and to others. 
I should have done well to see my father at once ; 
but I could not get away, and sat till noon, asking 
every now and then what I could do, and if Jack 
were better, despite the fact that I was told he was 
doing well. 

Mr. Warder was one of those people who, once a 
crisis seems over, must still be doing something, and 
to be rid of him he was sent by my aunt to get 
certain articles the doctors did or did not need. 
It seemed wise to this gentleman, having completed 
his errands, to pay a visit of condolence to my father, 
and thus it was that greater mischief was made. 

About two I got away, and set forth to see my par- 
ent- Already the news was out, and I was stopped 


222 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


over and over to explain what had happened. It was 
the hour of dinner ; for Friends dined at two, but 
ray aunt and the gayer set at four. 

My father turned from his meal, and coldly looked 
me all over,— my arm was in a sling, on which Dr. 
Rush, had insisted,— and last into my eyes. “ Well,” 
he said, “ thou art come at last. Fortunately, Friend 
Warder has been here, and I know thy story and the 
mischief into which thou hast led his poor lad. It is 
time we had a settlement, thou and I. Hast thou fear 
neither of God nor of man ? A rebellious son, and 
a defier of authority ! It is well thy mother is dead 
before she saw thee come to this ruin of soul and 
body.” 

“My God ! father,” I cried; “how canst thou 
hurt me thus ! I am in sorrow for Jack, and want 
help. To whom should I go but to thee f O mother, 
mother ! ” I looked around at the bare walls, and 
down at the sanded floor, and could only bury my 
face in my hands and weep like a baby. What with 
all the day had brought, and Darthea and Jack, and 
now this stern old man silent, impassive, unmoved 
by what was shaking me like a storm,— although I 
loved him still for all his hardness,— I had no refuge 
but in tears. 

He rose, and I sat still, thinking what I should say. 
*“ When thou art ready to turn from thy sin and ask 
pardon of God and of me, who am brought to shame 
on thy account, I will talk with thee.” 

Upon this I set myself between him and the door. 
*“ We cannot part this way. It is too terrible.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 223 



u That was a matter thou hadst been wise to con- 
sider long ago, Hugh.” 

u No ! ” I cried. I was as resolved as he. “ I must 
be heard. How have I offended ? Have I neglected 
thy business? who can say so? I was insulted in 
Meeting, and I went where men do not trample on 
a penitent boy, and if I have gone the way of my 
aunt’s world, is it my fault or thine ? I have gone 
away from what, in thy opinion, is right as regards 
questions in which the best and purest side with me. 
Am I a child, that I may not use my own judgment ? ” 
It was the first time in my life that I had plainly 
asserted my freedom to think and to act. 

To my surprise, he stood a moment in silence, 
looking down, I as quiet, regarding him with eager 
and attentive eyes. Then he said, seeking my gaze, 
“I am to blame; I have too much considered thy 
chances of worldly gain. I know not whence thou 
hast thy wilfulness.” As I looked in the face of this 
strong, rock-like man, I wondered ; for he went on, 
“ Not from me, Hugh, not from me—” 

“ Stop ! ” I said. “ Thou hast said enough.” I 
feared lest again he should reproach her of whose 
sweetness I had naught but a gift of the blue eyes 
that must have met his with menace. I saw, as his 
hands shook, tapping the floor with his cane, how 
great were both his anger and his self-control. 

“ It were well, my son, that this ended. I hope 
thou wilt see thy way to better courses. Thy cousin 
was right. He, too, is a man not of my world, but 
he saw more clearly than I where thou wert going ” 


224 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ What ! ” I cried, “ and thou canst think this 1 
Thou hast believed and trusted Arthur Wynne! 
What did he sa,y of me?” 

“ I will not be questioned.” 

u The man lied to thee,” I cried,— “why, I do not 
know. — and to others also. Why did he deceive us 
as to Wyncote ? What reason had he f As he lied 
about that, so does he seem to have lied about me. 
By heaven ! he shall answer me some day.” 

“I will hear no profanity in my house. Stand 
aside ! Dost thou not hear me ? Am I to be dis- 
obeyed in my own house ? ” 

I but half took in his meaning, and stood still. 
The next moment he seized me by the lapels of my 
coat, and, spinning me round like a child, pushed me 
from him. I fell into the great Penn chair he had 
turned from the table when he rose. He threw open 
the door, and I saw him walk quickly down the hall 
and out into the orchard garden. 

For a week he did no more than speak to me a 
word when business made it needful, and then the 
monotonous days went on as before in the gray, 
dismal home, out of which the light of life’s gladness 
departed when those dear mother-eyes were closed 
in death. 


XIV 


HILE, throughout that sad summer, my 
Jack was slowly coming back to health, 
even the vast events of the war now 
under way moved me but little. My Aunt 
Grainor would think of no one but her 
young Quaker. Her house was no longer gay, nor 
would she go to the country, until Mr. Warder agreed 
that she should take Jack with us to the Hill Farm- 
house, where, in the warm months, she moved among 
her cattle, and fed the hens, and helped and bullied 
every poor housewife far and near. 

In a bright-tinted hammock I fetched from Ma- 
deira, Jack used to lie under the apple-trees that 
June and July, with my aunt for company; better 
could hardly have been. When I came from town 
in June, with news of what the farmers and their 
long rifles had done at Bunker Hill, it was a little 
too much for Jack’s strength, and he burst into tears. 
But Dr. Rush declared that self-control was an affair 
of physical health, and that he who had too little 
blood— and Jack was lily-white— could be neither 
courageous, nor able to contain his emotions. I sup- 
pose it may be true. 

I went in and out of town daily, my father being 




226 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

unwilling to go to Merion. At times I met James 
Wilson, who was steadily urging me to enter the 
army. Wetherill had scarce any other words for me. 
But my father, Jack’s condition, and my aunt’s de- 
pending on me, all stood in my way, and I did hut 
content myself with an hour’s daily drill in town 
with others, who were thus preparing themselves 
for active service. 

We were taught, and well too, by an Irish ser- 
geant— I fear a deserter from one of his Majesty’s reg- 
iments. As Jack got better, he was eager to have 
me put him through his facings, but before he was 
fit the summer was nigh over. 

It had been a time of great anxiety to all men. 
The Virginia colonel was commander-in-chief ; a 
motley army held Sir William Howe penned up in 
Boston, and why he so quietly accepted this sheep- 
like fate no man of us could comprehend. My aunt, 
a great letter- writer, had many correspondents, and 
one or two in the camp at Cambridge. 

“My Virginia fox-hunter,” said my aunt, “is hav- 
ing evil days with the New England farmers. He is 
disposed to be despotic, says— well, no matter who. 
He likes the whipping-post too well, and thinks all 
should, like himself, serve without pay. A slow man 
it is, but intelligent,” says my Aunt Gainor ; “ sure 
to get himself right, and patient too. You will see, 
Hugh; he will come slowly to understand these 
people.” 

I smiled at the good lady’s confidence, and yet she 
was right. They took him ill at first in that undis- 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 227 

ciplined camp, and queer things were said of him. 
Like the rest, he was learning the business of war, 
and was to commit many blunders and get sharp 
lessons in this school of the soldier. 

These were everywhere uneasy times. Day after 
day we heard of this one or that one gone to swell 
the ever-changing number of those who beset Sir 
William. Gondolas— most unlike gondolas they 
were— were being built in haste for our own river 
defence. Committees, going from house to house, 
collected arms, tent-stuffs, kettles, blankets, and what 
not, for our troops. There were noisy elections, arrests 
of Tories j and in October the death of Peyton Ran- 
dolph, ex-president of the Congress, and the news 
of the coming of the Hessian hirelings. It was a 
season of stir, angry discussion, and stern waiting 
for what was to come ; but through it all my J ack 
prospered mightily in health, so that by September 
20 he was fit to leave us. 

I still think pleasantly of all the pretty pictures of 
pale, fair-haired Jack in the hammock, with Darthea 
reading to him, and the Whig ladies with roses from 
their gardens, and peaches and what not, all for Jack, 
the hero, I being that summer but a small and alto- 
gether unimportant personage. 

When my Jack went home again, we began at 
once to talk over our plans for joining Mr. Wash- 
ington ; I made sure that now there was no greater 
obstacle in my way than my father’s opinions. 
Alas! in November my aunt took what Dr. Rush 
called a pernicious ague, and, although bled many 


228 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


times and fed on Jesuits’ bark, she came near to dy- 
ing. In January she was better, but was become like 
a child, and depended upon me for everything. If I 
but spoke of my desire to be in the field, she would 
fall to tears or declare me ungrateful. She was 
morally weakened by her disease, and did seem to have 
changed as to her character. I lamented to Jack 
that it was my fate to stay, and he must go alone; 
I would follow when I could. 

It was far into April before my aunt was entirely 
her old self, but as early as the close of January she 
had decided that she was well, and that to be well 
you must get rid of doctors. She told the great 
physician as much, and he left her in vast disgust. 
Society she would now have had for remedial dis- 
traction, but the war had made of it a dismal wreck. 
The Tories had been warned or sent away; the 
moderates hardly fared better ; and the old gay set 
was broken up. Nevertheless it was not until far 
later, in July, 77, that Mr. Chew, Mr. Penn, and 
other as important neutrals, were ordered to leave 
the city ; until then some remnants of the governor’s 
set kept up more or less of the pleasant life they had 
once led. But there were no more redcoats in their 
drawing-rooms, and our antagonists were of the last 
who had lingered. Even before their departure, any 
gentleman of the king’s service was sure to be told 
to leave, and meanwhile was apt to find a militiaman 
at his door. 

My aunt would have none of them that winter, 
and her old Tory friends ceased to be seen at her 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 229 

house, save only Darthea, whilst continental uniforms 
and gentlemen of the Congress were made warmly 
welcome ; but alas ! among these was no match for 
her at piquet, and she felt that no one had sacrificed 
more for the country than had she. 

In February of ’76 a double change took place 
among us, and to my great discontent. I had seen 
much of Darthea in the fall and early winter of 75, 
and had come to know her better. She was fond of 
riding with my aunt, who had a strong gray stallion 
full of tricks, but no master of the hardy old lady, 
whom neither horse nor man ever dismayed. The 
good spinster was by no means as vigorous as I 
could have wished, but ride she would on all clear 
days whether cold or not, and liked well to have 
Darthea with us. When ill she was a docile patient, 
but, once afoot, declared all doctors fools, and would 
have no more of them “ and their filthy doses.” 

We rode of sunlit winter days out to Germantown, 
or upon the wood roads over Schuylkill, my Aunt 
Gainor from good nature being pleased to gallop 
ahead, and leave us to chat and follow, or not, as 
might suit us. 

One fine crisp morning in February we were 
breasting at a walk the slippery incline of Chestnut 
Hill, when Darthea, who had been unusually silent, 
said quite abruptly : 

“ I am going away, Mr. Wynne.” 

I was instantly troubled. “ Where ? ” I said. 

“Next week, and to New York. My aunt can 
no longer stand all this mob of rebels. We go to 


230 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

New York, and for how long I know not. Since, 
in September, our friend, Dr. John Kearsley, was 
mobbed and maltreated, my aunt declares you unfit 
to live among. I must say I thought it brutal, sir. 
When men of sense and breeding like Mr. Penn, 
Mr. Chew, and Dr. Kearsley, cannot live unmolested 
it is time, my aunt thinks, to run.” 

“No one annoys Mr. Penn or Mr. Chew,” said I 
“To my mind, they are neutrals, and worse than 
open foes; but thy doctor is a mad Tory, and a 
malignant talker. I saw the matter, and I assure 
thee it was overstated. He lost his temper; 7 t is 
a brave gentleman, and I would he were with us. 
But now that both sides are sure at last that they 
are really at war, these men who live among us and 
are ready to welcome every redcoat must have their 
lesson. It must be Yes or No, in a war like this.” 

“ But I hate that,” she returned ; “ and to be com- 
fortable and snug, and to love ease and Madeira and 
a quiet horse, and a book and a pipe and a nap of 
an afternoon, and then to have certain of the baser 
sort cry, 1 Get up and kill somebody ! ’ I think I am 
with Mr. Ross, and believe that, ‘ let who will be king, 
I well know I shall be subject.’ Imagine my Aunt 
Peniston’s fat poodle invited to choose between exile 
and killing rats.” 

“ My dear Darthea, for thee to preach caution and 
neutrality is delightful.” 

“ Did it sound like that Mr. Congregation ? ” 

“No ; to tell the truth, I think it did not.” 

K Indeed, you are right,” says she. “I am a red- 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 231 


hot Tory, sir. I scare Margaret Chew out of her 
sweet wits when I talk blood, blood, sir 5 and as to ^ 
Miss Franks,— she hates to be called Becky,— when I 
say I hope to see Mr. Washington hanged, she vows 
he is too fine a man, and she would only hang the 
ugly ones. So take care, Mr. Stay-at-home, take 
care ; I am no neutral.” 

“ Thank thee,” I said, lifting my hat. “ I like open 
enemies best.” 

“ Oh, I will say a good word for you, when it comes 
to that, and you will need it. Sir Guy will have 
Ticonderoga soon, and Mr. Howe New York j so that, 
with my loyal cousins and the king in possession, 
we shall at least be in civilised society.” 

“There is a well-worn proverb,” said I, “about 
counting chickens. Where shalt thou be in New 
York?” 

“ Cousin De Lancey has asked us to stay with them. 
When the king’s troops return to your rebel town 
we shall come back, I suppose.” 

“ I am sorry,” I said. “ All my friends are flitting 
like swallows. Poor Mr. Franks is to go, it seems, 
and the gay Miss Rebecca ; but she likes the redcoats 
best, and another is of the same mind, I fear.” 

“ I am not over-grieved to go myself,” said Darthea, 

“ and we will not quarrel just now about the redcoats. 
Have you seen Mr. Warder to-day?” 

“ I have not.” 

“ Then I am the bearer of ill news. He is to join 
your new general in a week or two. He could not 
find you this morning. I think he was relieved to 


232 Hugh Wynne: Free Quakei 

know I should tell you. How much he cares for you ! 
It is not like a man friendship. It is like the way 
we weak girls care for one another. How can he 
be such a brave gentleman as he seems— as he must 
be? I should have thought it would be you who 
would have gone first. Why do you not go ? Here 
is Miss Wynne’s pet girl-boy away to fight, and you 
— why do not you go ? ” 

I was puzzled, as well I might be. “Dost thou 
want me to go?” 

A quick light came into those brown eyes, and a 
little flush to the cheeks as she said,— oh, so very 
quickly,— “I want all my friends to do what seems 
to them right.” 

“ I am glad to answer,” I said. “ It seems to me 
my duty to be with the army ; my friends have gone, 
and now Graydon, the last to leave, has also gone. 
I fancy people smiling to see me still at home— I 
who am so positive, so outspoken. But here is my 
father, with whom if I go I break for life, and here 
is my Aunt Gainor, who bursts into tears if I do but 
mention my wish to leave her.” 

“ I see,” said Darthea, not looking at me ; “ now I 
understand fully; I did not before. But— will you 
think it strange if— if I say— I, a good and loyal 
woman— that you should go, and soon ? ” Then there 
was a long pause, and she added, “When will this 
cruel war end ? ” 

“ God knows,” said I. “ Thank thee ; thou art right, 
Darthea.” 

Another pause as long came after, when she said 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 233 


abruptly, and in quite another voice, “You do not 
like Mr. Arthur Wynne; why do you not?” 

I was startled. One never knew when she would 
get under one’s guard and put some prickly question. 

“ Dost thou think I have reason to like him ? ” I 
said. “ I did like him once, but now I do not ; nor 
does he love me any better. Why dost thou ask 
me?” 

“Oh, for— no matter! I am not going to say 
why.” 

“I think thou knowest, Darthea, that he is no 
friend of mine.” 

“ Let us join your aunt,” she said gravely. 

“ One word more,” said I, “ and I shall trouble thee 
no further. Rest sure that, come what may, there 
is one man who loves thee with a love no man can 
better.” 

“ I wish you had not said that. There are some, 
Mr. Wynne, who never know when to take No for 
an answer.” 

“ I am one,” said I. 

To this she made no reply, and rode on looking 
ahead in a dreamy way that fetched back to my 
memory a prettiness my dear mother had. Pres- 
ently turning, she said: 

“Let it end here; and— and my name is Miss 
Peniston, please.” 

There was no pettishness in her voice— only a 
certain dignity which sits better on little women 
than on little men, and provokes no smile. She was 
1 looking at me with a curious steadiness of gaze as 


234 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

she spoke. It was my last chance for many a day, 
and I could not let her go with a mere how of meek 
submission. 

u If I have been rude or discourteous, I am more 
sorry than I can say. If I called thee Darthea, it 
was because hope seemed to bring us nearer for one 
dear moment. Ah ! I may call thee Miss Peniston, 
but for me always thou wilt be Darthea ; and I shall 
love Darthea to the end, even when Miss Peniston 
has come to be a distant dream and has another 
name. I am most sorry to have given thee annoy- 
ance. Forget that, and pardon me.” 

“ Mr. Wynne, you are a kindly and courteous gen- 
tleman. I wish— and you must not misapprehend 
me— that I loved you. Oh, I do not. Your aunt, 
who is so good to me, is a fierce wooer. I am afraid 
of her, and— she must be miles away; let us join 
her.” And with this she shook her bridle, and was 
off at speed, and my mare and I at her side. 

If I have made those who loved Darthea Peniston 
and me understand this winning soul, I shall be 
glad ; and if not I shall at least have had the plea- 
sure of repeating words and describing actions which 
live in my remembrance with such exactness as does 
not apply to much of what, to the outer world, may 
seem far better entitled to be remembered. She had 
it in her to hurt you, help you, pity you, mock or 
amuse you, and back of it all was the honesty and 
truth of a womanhood capable of courageous conduct, 
and despising all forms of meanness. That she was 
variously regarded was natural. Margaret Shippen , 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 235 


said she cared only for dress and the men ; and the 
witty Miss Franks, seeing further, but not all, said 
that Darthea Peniston wms an actress of the minute, 
who believed her every role to be real. My wise 
aunt declared that she was several women, and that 
she did not always keep some of them in order. It 
was clear, to me at least, that she was growing older 
in mind, and was beginning to keep stricter school 
for those other women with whom my aunt credited 
^his perplexing little lady. 

Before I quite leave her for a time, I must let 
Jack say a word. It will tell more than I then knew 
or could know, and will save me from saying that 
which were better said by another. 

“At last there is certainty of a long war, and I, 
being well again, must take my side. It is fortunate 
when choice is so easy, for I find it often hard in life 
to know just what is right. Poor Hugh, who has 
gone further than I from our fathers’ faith, will still 
declare he is of Friends ; but he commonly drops our 
language if he is not excited or greatly interested, 
and the rest will go too. It is strange that his reso- 
luteness and clear notions of duty have so helped 
me, and yet that he is so caught and tied fast by 
Miss Gainor’s dependence upon him, and by his 
scruples as to his father. He cannot do the thing 
he would. Now that my own father has sold out his 
business, I at least am left without excuse. I shall 
go at once, for fear I shall change my mind.” A 
more unlikely thing I cannot imagine to have hap* 
pened to John Warder. 


236 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


u I saw Darthea to-day/’ he goes on to write. “ She 
is going to New York. She talked to me with such 
frankness as almost broke my heart. She does not 
know how dear she is to me. I was near to telling 
her; but if she said No,— and she would,— I might 
—oh, I could not see her again. I had rather live 
in doubt. And whether Hugh loves her or not I 
would I knew. Mistress Wynne does but laugh and 
say, ‘ Lord bless us ! they all love her ! ’ Hugh is, 
as to some things, reticent, and of Darthea likes so 
little to speak that I am led to think it is a serious 
business for him ; and if it be so, what can I but go ? 
for how could I come between him and .a woman 
he loved ? Never, surely. Why is life such a tangle ? 
As concerns this thing, it is well I am going. What 
else is left for me ? My duty has long been plain. 

“ I did venture to ask Darthea of Mr. Arthur 
Wynne. She said quietly, ‘ 1 have had a letter to- 
day/ and with this she looked at me in a sort of 
defiant way. I like the man not at all, and wonder 
that women fancy him so greatly. When I said I 
was sorry she was going, she replied, ‘It is no 
one’s business ; ’ and then added, ‘ nor Mr. Wynne’s 
neither,’ as if Hugh had said a word. In fact, Miss 
Peniston was almost as cross and abrupt as dear Miss 
Wynne at her worst. If ever, God willing, I should 
marry her,— there, I am blushing even to think of 
such a sweet impossibility,— she would drive me fran- 
tic. I should be in small rages or begging her par- 
don every half-hour of the day. 

“ What will Hugh say when he hears the Meeting 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 237 


means to disown ns? It troubles me deeply. My 
father is trembling too, for since a month he is all 
for resisting oppression, and who has been talking 
to him I do not know. Miss Wynne called him a 
decrepit weathercock to me last month, and then 
was in a fury at herself, and sorry too j but she will 
talk with him no more. It cannot be because he 
has sold his Holland cloths so well to the clothier- 
general. I never can think that. 

“When I saw Miss Wynne, and would have seen 
Hugh had he been in, I told her of my meaning to 
go away by the packet to Burlington, and thence 
through New Jersey. She said it was well, but that 
Hugh should not go yet. He should go soon. Mr. 
Lee, the new general, had been to see her— a great 
soldier, she was told. But she had not liked him, 
because he let her believe he came of the same family 
as Mr. Richard Henry Lee of Virginia, whereas this 
is not so. He was lank, sour, and ill dressed, she 
said, and fetched his two dogs into the house. When 
he saw Hugh, he said it was time all the young men 
were out. Miss Wynne disliked this, and it is re- 
ported that Mrs. Ferguson and she, meeting after 
church, had nearly come to blows, because Mrs. Fer- 
guson had said the people who made the war should 
be in the war, and on this the old lady desired to 
know if this arrow was meant for her or for her 
nephew. Mrs. F., not lacking courage, said she 
might choose. 

“ So Madam Wynne is pulled this way and that, 
and I must go alone ; smd I shall have a lieutenant’s 


23S Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


commission, and a pretty fellow am I to order other 
men about. I like best the continental line.” 

I saw Jack the day after my ride with Miss Pen- 
iston. I said sadly that he was right, and we talked 
it all over that week, running down the river at early 
morning after ducks, and through the wide channel 
between League Island and the Neck; or else we 
were away to Red Bank, or to the Jersey coast, if 
the ice permitted, as it often did. It was a wonder- 
ful, open winter, as it chanced, and we had more 
than our usual share of the ducks, which were very 
abundant. As we lay in the gray weeds below the 
bluff at Red Bank, we little thought of what it was 
to see. Our gallant Mercer, who fell at Princeton, 
was to give a name to the fort we built long after ; 
and there, too, was to die Count Donop, as brave a 
man, far from home, sold by his own prince to be 
the hireling of a shameful king. 

The ducks flew over thick, and between times, as 
we waited, we talked at intervals of the war, of 
Montgomery’s failure to capture Quebec, and of the 
lingering siege of Boston; of how the brutal de- 
struction of Norfolk in December bad stirred the Vir- 
ginians, and indeed every true heart in the colonies. 
Jack would write when occasion served. 

That last day (it was now February, as I have said) 
we supped with my aunt, Jack and I. After the meal 
was over, she went out of the room, and, coming back, 
gave Jack a handsome, serviceable sword, with a 
proper sash and tie. Then she must make him take 
a hundred pounds in a purse she had netted; and 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 239 


when he would not she said he was going to school, 
and must have a tip, and would hear no more, and 
kissed him, at which he got very red. Indeed, she 
was deeply moved, as was plain to see from the way 
she talked, speaking fast, and saying all manner of 
foolish things. 

This business of the sword troubled me more than 
it ought to have done, and I resolved that nothing 
should long keep me out of the field ; but alas ! it was 
many a day before my going became possible. And 
so my Jack went away, and Miss Peniston. 

The war was dull for a time, as the armies got 
ready for a spring at each other’s throats. At last, 
in March, his Excellency seized Dorchester Heights, 
and Boston became no longer tenable. Howe left 
it on March 17, and, what was as desirable, some two 
hundred cannon and vast stores of ammunition. 
Then, on Cambridge Common, our chief threw to the 
free winds our flag, with its thirteen stripes, and still 
in the corner the blood-red cross of St. George. 

Late in this winter of ’75-’7 6, an event took place, 
or rather the sequel of an event, which made me feel 
deeply the embarrassment in which the condition of 
my aunt and father placed me. He who reads may 
remember my speaking of a young fellow whom I 
saw at the Woodlands, John Macpherson. I took 
a great fancy to him later, and we fished and shot 
together until he went away, in August of ’75, to 
join Arnold for his wild march into Canada. 

His father, broken and sad, now brought to my 
aunt the news of his son’s death in the assault on 


240 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Quebec, and, speechless with grief, showed her the 
young fellow’s letter, writ the night before he fell. 
He wrote, with other matter : “ I cannot resist the 
inclination I feel to assure you that I experience no 
reluctance in this cause to venture a life I consider 
as only lent, and to be used when my country de- 
mands it.” He went on to say that, if he died, he 
could wish his brother William, an adjutant in the 
king’s army, would not continue in the service of 
our enemies. I saw, too, General Schuyler’s letter 
of condolence, but this was later. 

Nothing had moved me like this. I went away, 
leaving the father and my aunt. People came to this 
strong woman, sure of her tenderest help, and I trust 
she comforted her friend in his loss. This was the 
first officer of our own set our city lost in war, and 
the news, I think, affected me more than any. How, 
indeed, could I dare to stay when the best manhood 
of the land was facing death in a cause as dear to 
me as to any ? 

In June a new calamity fell on me, or I should say 
on my father ; for I felt it but little, or only as in 
some degree a release from bonds which I hesitated 
to sever by my own act. On the morning of June 25, 
my father called me into his counting-room, and, 
closing the door, sat down, I, as was thought fit, 
standing until told to be seated. Since he made no 
sign of any such desire on his part, I knew at once 
that this was not to be a talk about our affairs, in 
which, I may say, I had no interest except as to a 
very moderate salary. 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 241 


“ Thou wilt have to-day a call from Friend Pem- 
berton. The overseers are moved, at last, to call thee 
to an account. I have lost hope that thou wilt for- 
sake and condemn thy error. I have worked with 
the overseers to give thee and thy friend, John War- 
der, time, and this has been with tenderness accorded. 
No good is yet come of it. If this private admoni- 
tion be of no effect, thy case will come before over- 
seers again, and thou wilt be dealt with as a disorderly 
person, recommended to be disowned, when thy mis- 
deeds come to be laid before the Quarterly Meeting 
for discipline. Already the Yearly Meeting hath 
found fault with us for lax dealing with such as 
thou art. Thou hast ceased to obey either thy 
father or thy God, and now my shame for thee is 
opened to all men.” 

Not greatly moved I listened to this summary of 
what was to happen. “It is too late,” I said, “to 
argue this matter, my dear father. I cannot sin 
against my conscience. I will receive Mr. Pemberton 
as thy friend. He is a man whom all men respect 
and many love, but his ways are no longer my ways. 
Is that all?” I added. I feared any long talk with 
my father. We were as sure to fall out at last- as 
were he and my Aunt Gain or. 

“ Yes,” he said ; “ that is all And tell Wilson to 
bring me the invoice of the i Saucy Sally.’ ” 

This time neither of us had lost temper. He had 
j transacted a piece of business which concerned my 
soul, and I had listened. It had left me sore, but 
that was an old and too familiar story. Reflecting 
16 




242 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


on what had passed in the counting-house,— and my 
conclusion now shows me how fast I was growing 
older,— I put on my hat at once, and set out to find 
the overseer deputed to make a private remonstrance 
with my father’s son. I suppose that my action was 
also hastened by a disinclination to lie still, awaiting 
an unpleasant and unavoidable business. 

Finding James Pemberton in his office, I told him 
tha£ my errand was out of respect to relieve him of 
the need to call upon a younger man. He seemed 
pleased, and opened the matter in a way so gentle 
and considerate that I am sure no man could have 
bettered the manner of doing it. My attention to 
business and quieter life had for a time reassured 
the overseers. He would not speak of blood-guilti- 
ness now, for out of kindness to my distressed parent 
they had seen fit to wait, and for a time to set it 
aside. My father had been in much affliction, and 
Friends had taken note of this. Now he had to call 
to my mind the testimony of Friends as to war, and 
even how many had been reported to the Yearly 
Meeting for Sufferings on account of righteous un- 
willingness to resist constituted authority, and how 
men of my views had oppressed and abused them. 
Had I read the letter of the Yearly Meeting of 1774, 
warning members not to depart from their peaceful 
principles by taking part in any of the political mat- 
ters then being stirred up, reminding all Friends that 
under the king’s government they had been favoured 
with a peaceful and prosperous enjoyment of their 
rights, and the like ? 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 243 


I listened quietly, and said it was too late to discuss 
these questions, which were many; that my mind 
was fully made np, and that as soon as possible I 
meant to enter the army. He had the good sense 
to see that I was of no inclination to change ; and 
so, after some words of the most tender remonstrance, 
he bade me to prayerfully consider the business fur- 
ther, since overseers would not meet at once, and 
even when they did there would be time to manifest 
to Friends a just sense of my errors. 

I thanked him, and went my way, making, however, 
no sign of grace, so that, on July 4 of this 1776, 
late in the evening, I received in my aunt’s presence 
a letter from Isaac Freeman, clerk of the Meeting, 
inclosing a formal minute of the final action of 
Friends in my case. 

“ What is that ? ” said Aunt Gainor, very cheerful 
over a letter of thanks to her for having sold at cost 
to the Committee of Safety the cloth of Holland and 
the blankets she had induced my father to buy for 
her. She had stored them away for this hour of 
need, and was now full of satisfaction because of 
having made my father the means of clothing the 
continental troops. 

“ Read it aloud. What is it, sir V 1 I was smiling 
over what a few years before would have cost me 
many a bitter thought. 

“ Give it me ! What is it ? ” Then she put on a 
pair of the new spectacles with wire supports to rest 
on the ears. u Dr. Franklin gave me these new in- 
ventions, and a great comfort too. I cannot endure 


244 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


bridge glasses ; they leave dents in one’s nose. You 
have not seen him lately. He was here to-day. You 
should see him, Hugh. He was dressed very fine in 
a velvet coat with new, shilling buttons, and bless 
me ! but he has got manners as fine as his ruffles, 
and that is saying a good deal— Mechlin of the best. 
You would not know the man.” 

With this she began to look at my letter. “ Hoity- 
toity, sir ! this is a fine setting down for a naughty 
Quaker.” And she read it aloud in a strong voice, 
her head back, and the great promontory of her nose 
twitching at the nostrils now and then with supreme 
contempt : 

u 1 To Hugh Wynne : A minute, this Tenth-day of 
Sixth-month, 1776, from the monthly Meeting of 
Friends held at Philadelphia. 

“ 1 Whereas Hugh Wynne hath had his birth and 
education among Friends, and, as we believe, hath 
been convinced of that divine principle which pre- 
serves the followers thereof from a disposition to 
contend for the asserting of civil rights in a manner 
contrary to our peaceful profession, yet doth not 
manifest a disposition to make the Meeting a proper 
acknowledgment of his outgoings, and hath further 
declared his intention to continue his wrong-doing ; 

u i Therefore, for the clearing of truth and our 
society, we give forth our testimony against such 
breaches, and can have no unity with him, the said 
Hugh Wynne, as a member of our society until he 
become sensible of his deviations, and come to a sense 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 245 


of his error, and condemn the same to the satisfac- 
tion of Friends ; which is that we, as Christian men, 
desire. 

“ 1 Signed in, and on behalf of, the Meeting by 

“ ‘ Isaac Freeman, 

“ ‘ ClerkJ 

“ What insolent nonsense ! ” cried Miss W y nne. u I 
hope your father is satisfied. I assure you I am. 
You are free at last. Here was James Warder to-day 
with a like document to the address of my dear Jack. 
I was assured that it was a terrible disgrace. I bade 
him take snuff and not be any greater fool than na- 
ture had made him. He took my snuff and sneezed 
for ten minutes. I think it helped him. One can 
neither grieve nor reason when one is sneezing. It 
is what Dr. Rush calls a moral alterative. Whenever 
the man fell to lamenting, I gave him more snuff. 
I think it helped him. And so the baa-lambs of Meet- 
ing have disowned their two black sheep. Well, well ! 
I have better news for you. Mr. Carroll was here 
just now, with his charming ways. One would think 
when he is talking that one is the only woman alive. 
If I thought the priests taught him the trick, I would 
turn papist. You should observe his bow, Hugh. I 
thought Mr. Chew’s bow not to be surpassed; but 
Mr. Carroll— oh, where was IV’ 

tl Some good news,” I said. 

“ Yes, yes. He tells me the Congress this evening 
voted for a Declaration of Independence.” 

“ Indeed ! ” I cried. “ So it has come at last. I, 


246 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

too, am free, and it is time I went away, Aunt 
Gainor.” 

tl We will see,” she said. u How can I do without 
you? and there is your father too. He is not the 
man he was, and I do not see, Hugh, how you can 
leave him yet.” 

It was too true, as my last interview had shown 
me. He was no longer the strong, steadily obstinate 
John Wynne of a year or two back. He was less 
decisive, made occasional errors in his accounts, and 
would sometimes commit himself to risky ventures. 
Then Thomas Mason, our clerk, or my aunt would 
interfere, and he would protest and yield, having now 
by habit a great respect for my aunt’s sagacity, which 
in fact was remarkable. 

I went back to my work discontented, and pulled 
this way and that, not clearly seeing what I ought 
to do j for how could I leave him as he now was ? 
My aunt was right. 

Next day I heard Captain John Nixon read in the 
state-house yard the noble words of the declara- 
tion. Only a few hundred were there to hear it, and 
its vast consequences few men as yet could apprehend. 
Miss Norris told me not long after that she climbed 
on a barrow and looked over their garden wall at 
Fifth street and Chestnut ; “ and really, Mr. Wynne, 
there were not ten decent coats in the crowd.” But 
this Miss Norris was a hot Tory, and thought us all 
an underbred mob, as, I fear, did most of the pro- 
prietary set— the men lacking civil courage to fight 
on either side, and amazed that Mr. Wilson, and 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 247 

Mr. Reed, and Mr. Robert Morris, and the Virginia 
gentry, should side with demagogues like Adams 
and Roger Sherman. 

And so time ran on. I fenced, drilled, saw my 
companions drift away into war, and knew not how 
to escape. I can now look back on my dismissal 
from Meeting with more regret than it gave my youth. 
I have never seen my way to a return to Friends ; 
yet I am still apt to be spoken of as one of the small 
number who constitute, with Wetherill and Owen 
and Clement Biddle, the society of Friends known 
as Free Quakers. To discuss why later I did not 
claim my place as one of these would lead me to 
speaking of spiritual affairs, and this, as I have else- 
where said, I never do willingly, nor with comfort to 
myself. 

One afternoon in September of this year I was 
balancing an account when my father came in and 
told me that Mason, our clerk, had just had a fall in 
the hold of one of our ships. The day after I saw 
him, and although his hurts were painful they hardly 
seemed to justify my father in his desire that now 
at last he should take a long rest from work. 

This threw all the detail of our affairs as largely 
into my hands as was possible with a man like my 
father. I think he guessed my intention to leave 
him for the army, and gladly improved this chance 
to load me with needless affairs, and all manner of 
small perplexities. My aunt was better— in fact, 
well j but here was this new trouble. What could I 
do ? My father declared that the old clerk would 


248 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


soon be able to resume his place, and meanwhile, 
he should have no one to help him but me. Now 
and then, to my surprise, he made some absurd busi- 
ness venture, and was impatient if I said a word of 
remonstrance. Twice I was sent to Maryland to see 
after our tobacco plantations. I was in despair, and 
became depressed and querulous, seeing no present 
way, nor any future likelihood, of escape. My father 
was well pleased, and even my aunt seemed to me 
too well satisfied with the ill turn which fate had 
done me. My father was clearly using the poor old 
clerk’s calamity as an excuse to keep me busy ; nor 
was it at all like him to employ such subterfuges. 
All his life long he had been direct, positive, and 
dictatorial ; a few years back he would have ordered 
me to give up all idea of the army, and would as like 
as not have punished resistance with cold-blooded 
disinheritance. He was visibly and but too clearly 
changing from the resolute, uncompromising man 
he had once been. Was he cunning enough to know 
that his weakness was for me a bondage far stronger 
than his more vigorous rule had ever been ? 



[ Y personal difficulties were not made more 
easy to bear by the course of public 
events. Howe had taken New York. 
In November Fort Washington fell. 
Jack, who was within its walls, got 
away, but was slightly wounded. Our English gen- 
eral, Lee, had begun already to intrigue against 
Mr. Washington, writing, as Dr. Rush confided to my 
aunt, that he, Lee, ought to be made dictator. My 
aunt received the impression that the doctor, who 
loved his country well, was becoming discontented 
with our chief; but neither then nor later did she 
change her own opinion of the reserved and cour- 
teous Virginian. 

He soon justified her views of his capacity. On 
December 1 he broke down the bridges in his rear 
over the Raritan, and marched through Jersey with 
a dwindling army. At Princeton he had but three 
thousand men ; destroying every boat, he wisely put 
the broad Delaware between his army and the enemy. 

Lord Cornwallis halted at the river, waiting for it 
to freeze that he might cross, and until this should 
happen went back with Howe to New York. About 
December 15 of 76, General Lee was captured, and, 
249 


250 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 


strange as it may now seem, no calamity yet come 
upon us created more consternation. Meanwhile 
our own alarmed citizens began to bury their silver 
plate. While the feeble were flying, and the doubtful 
were ready to renew their oath to the king, the wary 
and resolute commander-in-chief saw his chance. 

To aid his courageous resolve came Sullivan and 
Gates from Lee’s late command. “ At sunset on 
Christmas day we crossed the Delaware,” writes Jack. 
“My general was in a small boat, with Knox, and 
two boatmen. We were ten hours in the ice, and 
marched nine miles, after crossing, in a blinding storm 
of sleet. By God’s grace we took one thousand of 
those blackguard Hessians, and, but for Cadwalader’s 
ill luck with the ice, would have got Donop also. I 
had a finger froze, but no worse accident. 

“ I dare say you know we fell back beyond Assun- 
pink Creek, below Trenton. There we fought my 
lord marquis again with good fortune. Meanwhile 
he weakened his force at Princeton, and, I fancy, 
thought we were in a trap ; but our general left fires 
burning, passed round the enemy’s left, and, as we 
came near Princeton at sunrise, fell upon Colonel 
Mawhood on his way to join Cornwallis. I was close 
to General Mercer when we saw them, and had as 
usual a fit of the shakes, hang them ! Luckily there 
was small leisure to think. 

“In the first onset, which was fierce, our brave 
general was mortally wounded ; and then, his Excel- 
lency coming up, we routed them finely. So away 
went Cornwallis, with the trapped hot after the trap- 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 251 


pers. We have the Jerseys and two thousand pris 
oners. I do not think even Miss Wynne can imagine 
what courage it took for our general to turn as he 
did on an army like that of Cornwallis’. Are you 
never coming ? 

“ It is sad that the Southern officers look upon us 
and those of New England as tradesfolk, and this 
makes constant trouble, especially among the militia, 
who come and go much as they please. I have had 
no personal difficulty, but there have been several 
duels, of which little is said. 

“ It is to be hoped that Congress will now order 
all enlistments to be for the war, else we shall soon be 
in a mortal bad way. Hast heard of Miss Peniston f ” 

This letter came soon after the smart little winter 
campaign in Jersey had made us all so happy. 

u It will last a good while yet,” said James Wilson. 
u And when are you going, Hugh t ” Indeed, I began 
at last to see a way opened, as we of Friends say ; 
for now, in the spring, our old clerk hobbled back to 
his desk, and I knew that my father would no longer 
be left without friendly and familiar help. But be- 
fore he could assume his full duties August was upon 
us— August of ’77, a year for me most eventful. 
Darthea’s letters to my aunt grew less and less fre- 
quent, and, as I thought, had an air of sadness un- 
usual in this gladsome creature. Once she spoke of 
Captain Wynne as absent, and once that he 7 like Jack, 
had had a slight wound in the storm of Fort Wash- 
ington. Of politics she could say nothing, as her 
letters had usually to pass our lines. 


252 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


On July 31 Washington knew that Howe’s fleet 
was off the Delaware capes. Meanwhile he had 
crossed that river into Pennsylvania, and hurried his 
army across country, finally encamping on a Satur- 
day at Nicetown, some five miles from Philadelphia. 
I rode out that evening to meet Jack, whose troop 
camped even nearer to town, and close to the tents 
of the headquarters staff. The general lay for this 
night at Stenton, where our Quaker friends, the 
Logans, lived. He was shown, I was told, the secret 
stairway and the underground passage to the stable 
and beyond, and was disposed to think it curious. 

Jack, now a captain, in a new suit of blue and buff, 
looked brown and hardy, and his figure had spread, 
but the locks were as yellow and the cheeks as rosy 
as ever I knew them. 

Dear Aunt G-ainor made much of him that evening, 
and we talked late into the night of battles and 
generals and what had gone with Lord Howe. I 
went to bed discontented, feeling myself to be a very 
inconsiderable person, and Jack rode away to camp. 
The next day being Sunday, the 24th of August, 
his Excellency marched into town by Front street at 
the head of the flower of his army, in all about eleven 
thousand. Fine men they were, but many half clad 
and ill shod ; fairly drilled too, but not as they were 
later in the war. The town was wild with delight, 
and every one glad save the Tories and the Quakers, 
many of whom remained all day in their houses. 

This march being made only to exhibit the army 
to friend and foe, the troops moved out High street 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 253 


and by the middle ferry across the Schuylkill, on 
their way toward the Delaware to meet Mr. Howe, 
who, having landed at the head of Elk River, w r as 
now on his way toward Philadelphia. His troops 
were slow, the roads bad and few, the agne in great 
force and severe— or so we heard. I rode sadly with 
our people as far as Darby, and then turned home- 
ward a vexed and dispirited man. It was, I think, 
on the 4th of August that our general, who had rid- 
den on in advance of his army, first met Marquis 
Lafayette. 

My aunt, who spoke French with remarkable flu- 
ency and a calm disregard of accent and inflections, 
was well pleased to entertain the French gentleman, 
and at her house I had the happiness to make his 
acquaintance, greatly, as it proved, to my future ad- 
vantage. He was glad to find any who spoke his 
own tongue well, and discussed our affairs with me, 
horrified at the lack of decent uniforms and discipline, 
but, like me, pleased with the tall, strong men he saw 
in our ranks. Later my acquaintance with French 
was of much use to me ; so little can a man tell what 
value an accomplishment will have for him. 

The marquis was very young, and somewhat free 
in stating his opinions. At this time he thought 
Mr. Howe intended Charleston, and, like others, was 
amazed at his folly in not going up the Delaware 
Bay to land his troops. His strange strategy left 
Burgoyne to the fate in store for him at Saratoga, 
where the latter general was to act a first part in a 
tragic drama much finer than those he wrote, which 


254 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

were so greatly praised by the fine ladies in London, 
and indeed by some better critics. 

A letter of Jack’s came to hand during this week. 
In it he said my aunt must leave, as he was sure we 
had not force enough to keep General Howe out 
of Philadelphia. But the old lady said, “Not I, in- 
deed ! 77 and I think no mortal power could have in- 
duced her to go away. She even declined to bury 
her silver, as many had done. Not so the rest of 
the Whigs. Every one fled who knew where to go, 
or who feared to be called to account; and none 
would hear of defending the town, as should have 
been attempted. 

Jack’s letter went on to say that in Delaware the 
general had a narrow escape. “ He rode out,” says 
Jack, “ with Marquis Lafayette on a reconnaissance, 
attended by but two officers and an orderly. General 
Sullivan had an officer follow with a half-troop ; but 
the general, fearing such numbers might attract 
attention, ordered them to wait behind a thicket. 
Looking thence, they saw the general ride direct 
toward a picket of the enemy, which from their 
vantage they could see, but he could not. An Eng- 
lish officer, perceiving him, seemed to give an order 
to fire ; but as the men raised their pieces he struck 
them up. As he was about to give the order to fire, 
the general, being satisfied, had turned his back to 
ride away. It is a curious tale, is it not ? and none 
can explain it.” 

Long years after I myself met an English officer, 
a General Henderson, in Canada, and on my telling 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 255 


him the incident, he said at once it was he who was 
concerned, and that when the general turned to ride 
away he could not make up his mind to shoot down 
a man who had turned his back. He was amazed 
and pleased to know who it was he thus spared. 

On the 11th of September, at evening, came the 
disaster of Brandywine, and on the 26th Lord Corn- 
wallis marched into our city, with two batteries and 
the Sixteenth Dragoons and Grenadiers. They were 
received quietly, and that evening my Cousin Arthur 
appeared at our house. My father, who had been 
very inert of late, seemed to arouse himself, and ex- 
pressed quite forcibly his joy and relief at the coming 
of the troops. He recounted his griefs, too: how 
that, refusing the militia tax, the Committee of Safety 
had taken away his great tankard, and later two 
tables, which was true enough. Then, to my amaze- 
ment, my father declared Arthur must stay with us, 
which he was nothing loath to do. 

I was cool, as you may suppose, but it was difficult 
for man or woman to resist Arthur Wynne when 
he meant to be pleasant ; and so, putting my dislike 
aside, I found myself chatting with him about the 
war and what not. In fact, lie was a guest, and what 
else could I do ? 

My aunt kept herself indoors and would none of 
the Galloways and Allens, who had come back in 
swarms, nor even the neutrals, like Mr. Penn, whom 
she much liked. The day after the town was occu- 
pied, Captain Wynne appeared early in the morning, 
as we were discussing a matter of business. He 


256 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 


took it for granted, I presume, that my aunt would 
see him, and went past the turbaned black boy 
despite his small remonstrances. My aunt rose to 
the full of her great height, her nose in the air, and 
letting fall a lapful of papers. 

“ To what,” she said, “ have I the honour to owe 
a visit from Mr. Wynne ? Is my house an inn, that 
any officer of the king may enter whether I will or 
not!” 

Although he must have been surprised, he was 
perfectly at his ease. Indeed, I envied him his self- 
possession. 

“ Madam,” he said, “I am charged with a letter 
from Miss Peniston.” 

“You may put it on the table,” says Mistress 
Wynne. “My brother may choose his society. I 
ask the same privilege. It will not consist of gentle- 
men of your profession.” 

Mr. Wynne’s face grew black under its dark skin. 
“ Madam,” he said, “ I stay nowhere as an unwelcome 
guest. I thank you for past kindness, and I humbly 
take my leave. I could have done you a service as 
to this business of the quartering of officers, and you 
shall still have my good offices for the sake of the 
many pleasant hours I have passed in your house. 
As my Cousin Hugh says nothing, I am glad to think 
that he is of a different opinion from that which you 
have put in words so agreeably.” With this he went 
away, leaving my aunt red in the face, and speechless 
with wrath. 

I thought he had the best of it j but I merely said 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 257 


w My dear aunt, you should not have been so hard 
with him.” I did, indeed, think it both unwise and 
needless. 

“ Stuff and nonsense ! ” says Miss Wynne, walking 
about as my father used to do. “ I do not trust him, 
and he has got that girl in his toils, poor child ! I 
wonder what lies he has told her. How does he hold 
her? I did think that was past any man's power; 
and she is unhappy too. When a woman like Dar- 
thea begins to find a man out, she can't help showing 
it, and some are more frank on paper than in talk ; 
that is her way. I am afraid I made mischief once, 
for I told him long ago that I meant her to marry 
you ; and then I saw he did not like it, and I knew 
I had been a goose. Whatever is the reason he hates 
you, Hugh? Oh yes, he does— he does. Is it the 
woman ? I will have no redcoats in my house.” 

I got a chance to say— what I was sorry to have 
to say— how little need there was for him to fear 
poor me, whom Darthea wished to have nothing to 
do with, I thought. 

“Her loves are like her moods, my dear Hugh; 
who knows how long they will last ? Until a woman 
is married she is not to be despaired of.” 

I shook my head sadly and went out. 

I returned late in the evening, to order my horse 
to be saddled and sent to me before breakfast next 
mornmg ; for I kept it at no cost in my aunt's ample 
stable. To my horror, I found a sentinel at the door, 
and the hall full of army baggage. In the parlour 
was a tall Hessian, General von Knyphausen, and 

17 


258 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Count Donop and others, smoking, much at their ease. 
They were fairly civil, but did not concern themselves 
greatly if I liked it or not. I found my aunt in bed, 
in a fever of vain anger. 

She had the bed-curtains drawn, and when I was 
bid to enter, put aside the chintz so as to make room 
for her head, which appeared in a tall nightcap. I 
am unfit, I fear, to describe this gear ; but it brought 
out all her large features very strongly, and to have 
seen her would have terrified a Hessian regiment. 

“ My house is full of Dutch dogs,” she cried. “ As 
soon as they came they ordered bones.” In fact, they 
had asked quite civilly if they might have supper. 

“ I saw them at their feed,” says my aun f , “ and 
the big beast, General Knyphausen, spread my best 
butter on his bread with his thumb, sir— his thumb ! 
Count Donop is better; but Yon Heiser! and the 
pipes ! heavens ! ” Here she retreated within her 
curtains, and I heard her say, “ Bessy Ferguson saw 
them come in, and must sail across the street and tell 
Job— the page with the turban — to congratulate me 
for her, and to advise me to get a keg of sauerkraut.” 

I assured my aunt that fortunately these were gen- 
tlemen, but she was inconsolable, declaring herself 
ill, and that Dr. Rush must come at once. 

u But,” I said, “ he is gone with all the Congress 
to York.” 

“ Then I shall die,” moaned my aunt. 

At last, knowing her well, I said, “Is it not too 
sad?” 

“ What 7 s that ? What ? ” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 259 


“Mr. Howe has taken Mrs. Pemberton’s carriage 
and the pair of sorrels for his own use.” 

At this my Aunt Gain or’ s large face reappeared, 
not as melancholic as before, and I added, “ Friend 
Wain has six to care for, and Thomas Scattergood 
has the Hessian chaplain and a drunken major. The 
rest of Friends are no better off.” 

u Thank the Lord for all His mercies ! ” said Miss 
Wynne. 

“ And Mr. Cadwalader’s house on Little Dock street 
Sir William has.” 

“ A pity that, Hugh. The fine furniture will pay 
for it, I fear. I think, Hugh, I am better, or I shall 
be soon.” 

“ They talk of the Meeting over the way for a bar- 
rack, Aunt Gain or.” Now this was idly rumoured, 
but how could one resist to feed an occasion so 
comic ? 

“ I think I should die contented,” said Miss Wynne. 
“ Now go away, Hugh. I have had my medicine, and 
I like it.” She was quick at self-analysis, and was 
laughing low, really happier for the miseries of her 
Tory acquaintances. 

After the bedroom comedy, which much amused 
me and out of which my aunt got great comfort, she 
was inclined to be on better terms with the officers 
so abruptly thrust upon her. For a while, however, 
she declined to eat her meals with them, and when 
told that they had had Colonel Montresor to dine, and 
had drunk the king’s health, she sent all the glasses 
they had used down to the blacks in the kitchen. 


260 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


and bade them never to dare set them on her table 
again. This much delighted Count Donop, who 
loved George of Hanover no better than did she, and 
I learned that she declared the bread-and-butter busi- 
ness was the worst of Von Knyphausen, and was 
no doubt a court custom. As to Count Donop, she 
learned to like him. He spoke queer French, and 
did not smoke. u Je nefoume pas chamais , madame” 
he said ; “ mais le Gheneral, ilfoume touchours, et Von 
Reiser le meme ” which was true. The count knew 
her London friends, and grieved that he was sent on 
a service he did not relish, and in which later he was 
to lose his life. 

My aunt fed them well, and won at piquet, and 
declared they were much to be pitied, although Yon 
Heiser was a horror. When he had knocked down 
her red-and-gold Delft vase, the gods and the other 
china were put away, and then the rugs, because of 
the holes his pipe ashes burned, and still she vowed 
it was a comfort they were not redcoats. Them she 
would have poisoned. 

Captain Andre alone was an exception. When, in 
1776, he was made a prisoner bjr Montgomery in 
Canada, and after that was on parole at Lancaster, I 
met him ; and as he much attracted me, my aunt sent 
him money, and I was able to ease his captivity by 
making him known to our friends, Mr. Justice Yeates 
and the good Cope people, who, being sound Tories, 
did him such good turns as he never forgot, and 
kindly credited to us. Indeed, he made for my aunt 
some pretty sketches of the fall woods, and, as I 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 261 

have said, was welcome where no other redcoat could 
enter. 

My aunt was soon easier in mind, but my own 
condition was not to be envied. Here was Arthur 
Wynne at my father’s, the Hessians at my aunt’s, the 
Tories happy, seven or eight thousand folks gone 
away, every inn and house full, and on the street 
crowds of unmannerly officers. It was not easy to 
avoid quarrels. Already the Hessian soldiers began 
to steal all manner of eatables from the farms this 
side of Schuylkill. More to my own inconvenience, 
I found that Major von Heiser had taken the priv- 
ilege of riding my mare Lucy so hard that she was 
unfit to use for two days. At last my aunt’s chicken- 
coops suffered, and the voice of her pet rooster was 
no more heard in the land. I did hear that, as this 
raid of some privates interfered with the Dutch gen- 
eral’s diet, one of the offenders got the strappado. 
But no one could stop these fellows, and they were 
so bold as to enter houses and steal what they wanted, 
until severe measures were taken by Mr. Howe. They 
robbed my father boldly, before his eyes, of two fat 
Virginia peach-fed hams, and all his special tobacco. 
He sto6d by, and said they ought not to do it. This, 
as they knew no tongue but their own, and as he 
acted up to his honest belief in the righteousness of 
non-resistance, and uttered no complaint, only served 
to bring them again. But this time I was at home, 
and nearly killed a corporal with the Quaker staff 
Thomas Scattergood gave my father. The adven- 
ture seemed to compensate Miss Wynne for her own 


262 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


losses. The corporal made a lying complaint, and 
hut for Mr. Andre I should have been put to serious 
annoyance. Our boys used to say that the Hessian 
drum-beat said, “ Plunder, plunder, plun, plun, plun- 
der.” And so for the sad remnant of Whig gentles 
the town was made in all ways unbearable. 

There are times when the life sands seem to run 
slowly, and others when they flow swiftly, as dur- 
ing this bewildering week. Alt manner of things 
happened, mostly perplexing or sad, and none quite 
agreeable. On the 28th, coming in about nine at 
night, I saw that there were persons in the great 
front sitting-room, which overlooked Dock Creek. 
As I came into the light which fell through the open 
doorway, I stood unnoticed. The room was full of 
pipe smoke, and rum and Hollands were on the table, 
as was common in the days when Friends’ Meeting 
made a minute that Friends be vigilant to see that 
those who work in the harvest-fields have portions of 
rum. My father and my cousin sat on one side, op- 
posite a short, stout man almost as swarthy as Ar- 
thur, and with very small piercing eyes, so dark as 
to seem black, which eyes never are. 

I heard this gentleman say, “ Wynne, I hear that 
your brother is worse. These elder brothers are un- 
natural animals, and vastly tenacious of life.” On 
this I noticed my cousin frown at him and slightly 
shake his head. The officer did not take the hint, 
if it were one, but added, smiling, “ He will live to 
bury you; unfeeling brutes— these elder brothers. 
Damn ’em ! ” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 263 

I was shocked to notice how inertly my father 
listened to the oath, and I recalled, with a sudden 
sense of distress, what my aunt had said of my 
father’s state of mind. The young are accustomed 
to take for granted the permanency of health in their 
elders, and to look upon them as unchanging insti- 
tutions, until, in some sad way, reminded of the frailty 
of all living things. 

As I went in, Arthur rose, looked sharply at me, 
and said, “Let me present my cousin, Mr. Hugh 
Wynne, Colonel Tarleton.” 

I bowed to the officer, who lacked the politeness 
to rise, merely saying, “Pleased to see you, Mr. 
Wynne.” 

“We were talking,” said Arthur, “ when you came 
of the fight at the river with the queer name— Bran- 
dy wine, is n’t it ? ” 

“No,” said my father; “thou art mistaken, and I 
wished to ask thee, Arthur, what was it thou wert 
saying. We had ceased to speak of the war. Yes; 
it was of thy brother.” 

“ What of thy brother ?” said I, glad of this opening. 

“ Oh, nothing, except Colonel Tarleton had news 
he was not so well.” He was so shrewd as to think 
I must have overheard enough to make it useless to 
lie to me. A lie, he used to say, was a reserve not 
to be called into service except when all else failed. 

“Oh, was that all?” I returned. “I did hear, 
Cousin Arthur, that the Wyncote estate was growing 
to be valuable again ; some coal or iron had been 
found.” 


264 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 


“So my mother writes me,” said Tarleton. “We 
are old friends of your family .’ 7 

“You know , 77 I said, “we are the elder branch . 71 
I was bent on discovering, if possible, the cause of my 
cousin’s annoyance whenever Wyncote was mentioned. 

“ I wish it were true about our getting rich , 77 said 
Arthur, with the relaxed look about the jaw I had 
come to know so well j it came as he began to speak. 
“If it were anything but idle gossip, Tarleton, 
what would it profit a poor devil of a younger son f 
They did find coal, but it came to nothing j and in* 
deed I learn they lost money in the end . 77 

“ I have so heard , 77 said my father, in a dull way. 
“ Who was it told me ? I forget. They lost money . 77 

I looked at him amazed. Who could have told him 
but Arthur, and why ? Until a year back his mem- 
ory had been unfailing. 

I saw a queer look, part surprise, part puzzle, go 
over Tarleton’s face, a slight frown above, as slight 
a smile below. I fancy he meant to twit my cousin, 
for he said to me : 

“And so you are of the elder branch, Mr. Hugh 
Wynne. How is that, Arthur? How did the elder 
branch chance to lose that noble old house ? 77 

My cousin sat rapping with his fingers on the table 
what they used to call the “ devil’s tattoo , 77 regarding 
me with steady, half-shut eyes— a too frequent and 
not well-mannered way he had, and one I much dis- 
liked. He said nothing, nor had he a chance, for I 
instantly answered the colonel : “ My father can tell 
you . 77 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 265 


“About what, Hugh?” 

“About how we lost our Welsh estate” 

My father at this lifted his great bulk upright in 
the old Penn chair, and seemed more alive. 

“ It is Colonel Tarleton who asks, not I.” 

“ It is an old story.” He spoke quite like himself. 
“Our cousin must know it well. My father suf- 
fered for conscience’ sake, and, being a Friend, 
would pay no tithes. For this he was cast into jail 
in Shrewsbury Gate House, and lay there a year, 
suffering much in body, but at peace, it may surely 
be thought, as to his soul. At last he was set free 
on condition that he should leave the country.” 

“ And the estate ? ” asked Tarleton. 

“ He thought little of that. It was heavily charged 
with debt made by his father’s wild ways. I believe, 
too, there was some agreement with the officers of 
the crown that he should make over the property to 
his next brother, who had none of his scruples. This 
was in 1670, or thereabouts. A legal transfer was 
made to my uncle, who, I think, loved my father, 
and understood that, being set in his ways, he would 
defy the king’s authority to the end. And so — 
wisely I think —the overruling providence of God 
brought us to a new land, where we have greatly 
prospered.” 

“And that is all?” said the colonel. “What a 
strange story ! And so you are Wynne of Wyncote, 
and lost it.” 

“ For a greater gain,” said my father. “ My son 
has a silly fancy for the old place, but it is lost— lost 


266 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

—sold; and if we could have it at a word, it would 
grieve me to see him cast in his lot among a set of 
drunken, dicing, liard-riding squires— a godless set. 
It will never be if I can help it. My son has left the 
creed of his father and of mine, and I am glad that 
his worldly pride cannot be further tempted. Dost 
thou hear, Hugh ? ” 

There was a moment of awkward silence. My 
father had spoken with violence, once or twice strik- 
ing the table with his fist until the glasses rang. 
There was something of his old vehemence in his 
statement ; but as a rule, however abrupt when we 
were alone, before strangers he was as civil to me as 
to others. My cousin, I thought, looked relieved as 
my father went on; and, ceasing to drum on the 
table, he quietly filled himself a glass of Hollands. 

I was puzzled. What interest had Arthur to lie 
about the value of Wyncote if it was irretrievably 
lost to us ? As my father ended, he glanced at me 
with more or less of his old keenness of look, smiling 
a little as he regarded me. The pause which came 
after was brief, as I have said; for my reflections, 
such as they were, passed swiftly through my mind, 
and were as complete as was under the circumstances 
possible. 

“I am sorry for you,” said Tarleton. “An old 
name is much, but one likes to have with it all the 
memories that go with its ancient home.” 

“That is true,” said I; “and, if my father will 
pardon me, I like still to say that I would have 
Wyncote to-day if I could.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 267 


“ Thou canst not/’ said my father. “ And what we 
cannot have— what God has willed that we shall not 
have— it were wise and well to forget. It is my affair, 
and none of thine. Wilt thou taste some of my newly 
come Madeira, Friend Tarleton ? ” 

The colonel said “No,” and shortly after left us, 
my cousin going with him. 

My father sat still for a while, and then said as 
I rose, “I trust to hear no more of this nonsense. 
Thy aunt and thy mother have put it in thy foolish 
head. I will have no more of it— no more. Dost 
thou hear ? ” 

I said I would try to satisfy him, and so the thing 
came to an end. 

The day after this singular talk, which so much 
puzzled me, Arthur said at breakfast that he should 
be pleased to go with me on the river for white perch. 
I hesitated ; but, my father saying, “ Certainly ; he 
shall go with thee. I do not need him,” I returned 
that I would be ready at eleven. 

We pulled over toward Petty’s Island, and when 
half-way my cousin, who was steering, and had been 
very silent for him, said : 

“ Let her drift a bit ; I want to talk to you.” 

I sat still and listened. 

“Why do not you join our army? A commission 
were easily had.” 

I replied that he knew my sentiments well, and 
that his question was absurd. 

“ No,” he said ; “ I am your friend, although you 
do not think so. By George ! were I you, I would 


268 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

be on one side or the other. I like my friends to do 
what is manly and decisive.” “ Holloa ! ” thinks I j 
“ has Darthea been talking ? And why does he, an 
officer of the king, want me to go ? ” 

“ I shall go some day,” I replied, “ bnt when, I know 
not yet. It seems to me queer counsel to give a good 
rebel. When does Miss Peniston return ? ” I said. 

“ What the deuce has that got do do with it ? Yes, 
she is coming back, of course, and soon ; but why do 
not you join your army?” 

“Let us drop that,” I said. “There are many 
reasons ; I prefer not to discuss the matter.” 

“Very good,” he said; “and, Hugh, you heard a 
heap of nonsense last night about Wyncote. Tarle- 
ton had too much of your father’s rum-punch. Your 
people were lucky to lose the old place, and how these 
tales of our being rich arose I cannot imagine. Come 
and see us some day, and you will no longer envy the 
lot of beggared Welsh squires.” 

All of this only helped the more to make me dis- 
believe him ; but the key to his lies I had not, and so 
I merely said it would be many a day before that 
could happen. 

“ Perhaps,” he returned ; “ but who knows ? The 
war will soon be over.” 

“ When will Miss Peniston be in town ? ” said I. 

He was not sure ; but said I put it in his mind to 
say something. 

“Well?” said I, on my guard. 

He went on : “ I am a frank man, Cousin Hugh.” 

At times he was, and strangely so ; then the next 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 269 


minute lie would be indirect or lie to you. The mix- 
ture made it hard to understand what he was after. 

“ I trust,” he went on, “ that you will pardon me 
if I say that in England custom does not sanction 
certain freedoms which in the colonies seem to be 
regarded as of no moment. I am not of this opinion. 
Miss Peniston is, I hope, to be my wife. She is 
young, impulsive, and— well, no matter. Some men 
take these things coolly; I do not. I am sure you 
will have the good sense to agree with me. When 
a woman is pledged to a man, it is fit that she should 
be most guarded in her relations with other men. 
I-” 

Here I broke in, “What on earth does all this 
mean ? ” 

“ I will tell you. Your aunt writes now and then 
to Miss Peniston.” 

“ Certainly,” said I. 

“Yes; she says, too, things concerning you and 
that lady which are not to my taste.” 

“ Indeed ? ” 

“ I have been so honoured as to see some of these 
famous epistles. I think Darthea is pleased to tor- 
ment me at times ; it is her way, as you may happen 
to know. Also, and this is more serious, you have 
yourself written to Darthea.” 

“ I have, and several times. Why not ? ” 

“ These letters,” he went on, “ she has refused to 
show to me. Now I want to say— and you will par- 
don me — that I permit no man to write to a woman 
whom I am to marry unless I do not object.” 


2jo Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 

“Well?” I said, beginning to smile, after my 
unmanageable habit. 

“ Here I do object.” 

“ What if I say that, so long as Miss Peniston does 
not seem displeased, I care not one farthing who 
objects ? ” 

“ By George ! ” cried he, leaping up in the boat. 

“ Take care j thou wilt upset the skiff.” 

“ I have half a mind to.” 

“ Nonsense ! I can swim like a duck.” 

“ This is no trifle, sir,” he returned. “ I will allow 
no man to take the liberty you insist on. It amazes 
me that you do not see this as I do. I am sorry, but 
I warn you once for all that I—” 

“ I am at your service, sir,” I broke in. 

“ Pshaw ! nonsense ! I am a guest in your father’s 
house. I have thought it my duty, for your sake and 
my own, to say what I have said. When I know 
that you have again disobeyed my reasonable and 
most earnest wish, I shall consider how to deal with 
the matter. I have been forbearing so far, but I 
cannot answer for the future.” 

“ Cousin Arthur,” I replied, “ this seems to me a 
silly business, in which we have both lost our tem- 
pers. I have no hope that Miss Peniston will ever 
change her mind, and I am free to say to you that I 
think it useless to persist ; but nevertheless—” 

“ Persist ! ” 

“ I said 1 persist.’ Until Miss Peniston is no longer 
Miss Peniston, I shall not cease to do all that is in 
my power to make her change her mind.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 271 


“ And you call that honourable— the conduct of a 
gentleman and a kinsman ? ” 

“Yes; I, too, can be frank. I would rather see 
her marry any other man than yourself. You have 
sought to injure me, why I shall tell you at my own 
time. I think you have been deceiving all of us as 
to certain matters. Oh, wait ! I must have my say. 
If you were— what I do not think you— a straight- 
forward, truthful man, I should think it well, and 
leave Miss Peniston to what seems to be her choice. 
You have been frank, and so am I, and now we un- 
derstand each other, and— no; I heard you to an 
end, and I must insist that I too be heard. I am not 
sorry to have had this talk. If I did not care for her 
who has promised you her hand, I should be careless 
as to what you are, or whether you have been an 
enemy in my home while pretending to be a friend. 
As it is, I love her too well not to do all I can to 
make her see you as I see you; and this, although 
for me there is no least hope of ever having a place 
in her heart. I am her friend, and shall be, and, until 
she forbids, shall claim every privilege which, with 
our simpler manners, the name of friend carries with 
it. I trust I am plain.” 

“ Plain ? By heavens ! yes. I have borne much, 
but now I have only to add that I never yet forgave 
an insult. You would be wiser to have a care. A 
man who never yet forgave has warned you. What 
I want I get ; and what I get I keep.” 

“ I think,” I said, “ that we will go ashore.” 

« With all my heart.” And in absolute silence I 


272 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


pulled back. At the slip he left me without a word, 
and I secured the boat and walked away, having 
found ample subject for reflection. Nor was I alto- 
gether discontented at my cousin’s evident jealousy. 

The afternoon of this memorable day I rode out 
on poor Lucy, whom I had put for safety in our home 
stables. I went out High to Seventh street, and up 
to Race street road, where there was better footing, 
as it had been kept in order for the sport which made 
us call it Race street, and not Sassafras, which is its 
real name. I was brought to a stand about Twelfth 
street, then only an ox-path, by the baj^onet of a gren- 
adier, the camps lying about this point. I turned to 
ride back, when I heard a voice I knew crying : 

“Holloa, Mr. Wynne! Are you stopped, and 
why f ” 

I said I knew no reason, but would go south. I 
was out for a ride, and had no special errand. 

“ Come with me then,” he said pleasantly. “ I am 
now the engineer in charge of the defences.” This 
was my Aunt Gainor’s old beau, Captain Montresor, 
now a colonel. 

“I am sorry your aunt will see none of us, 
Mr. Wynne. If agreeable to you, we will ride 
through the lines.” 

I asked nothing better, and explaining, awkwardly 
I fear, that my aunt was a red-hot Whig, we rode 
south to Spruce street, past the Bettering-house at 
Spruce and Eleventh streets, where the troops which 
had entered with Lord Cornwallis were mostly sta- 
tioned. The main army lay at Germantown, with de- 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 273 


tachments below the city, on the east and west banks 
of the Schuylkill, to watch our forts at Red Bank and 
the islands which commanded the Delaware River 
and kept the British commander from drawing sup- 
plies from the great fleet which lay helpless below. 

As we went by, the Grenadiers were drilling on 
the open space before the poorhouse. I expressed 
my admiration of their pointed caps, red, with silver 
front plates, their spotless white leggings and blue- 
trimmed scarlet coats. 

“ Too much finery, Mr. Wynne. These are a king’s 
puppets, dressed to please the whim of royalty. If 
all kings took the field, we should have less of this. 
Those miserable devils of Mr. Morgan’s fought as 
well in their dirty skin shirts, and can kill a man at 
murderous distance with their long rifles and little 
bullets. It is like gambling with a beggar. He 
has all to get, and nothing to lose but a life too 
wretched to make it worth keeping.” 

I made no serious reply, and we rode westward 
through the governor’s woods to the river. As we 
turned into an open space to escape a deep mud-hole, 
Mr. Montresor said : 

“It was here, I think, ycu and Mr. Warder made 
yourselves agreeable to two of our people.” I laughed, 
and said it was a silly business and quite needless. 

“ That, I believe,” he cried, laughing, u was their 
opinion somewhat late. They were the jest of every 
regimental mess for a month, and we were inclined 
to think Mr. Washington had better raise a few 
regiments of Quakers. Are you all as dangerous?” 

18 


274 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“Oh, worse, worse,” I said. “Jack Warder and I 
are only half -fledged specimens. You should see the 
old fellows.” Thus jesting, we rode as we were able 
until we reached the banks of the Schuylkill, pick- 
eted on both shores, but on the west side not below 
the lower ferry, where already my companion was 
laying a floating bridge which greatly interested 
me. 

“We have a post on the far hill,” he said, “I am 
afraid to Mr. Hamilton’s annoyance. Let us follow 
the river.” 

I was able to guide him along an ox-road, and past 
garden patches across High street, to the upper ferry 
at Callowhill street. Here he pointed out to me the 
advantage of a line of nine forts which he was already 
building. There was to be one on the hill we call 
Fairmount to command the upper ferry. Others 
were to be set along to the north of Callowhill street 
road at intervals to Cohocsink Creek and the Dela- 
ware. 

The great trees I loved were falling fast under the 
axes of the pioneers, whom I thought very awkward 
at the business. Farm-houses were being torn down, 
and orchards and hedges levelled, while the unhappy 
owners looked on in mute despair, aiding one an- 
other to remove their furniture. The object was to 
leave a broad space to north of the forts, that an 
attacking force might find no shelter. About an 
hundred feet from the blockhouses was to be an 
abatis of sharpened logs, and a mass of brush and 
trees, through which to move would be difficult. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 275 


I took it all in, and greedily. The colonel no doubt 
thought me an intelligent young fellow, and was kind 
enough to answer all my questions. He may later 
have repented his freedom of speech. And now I 
saw the reason for all this piteous ruin. Compensa- 
tion was promised and given, I heard, but it seemed 
to me hard to be thus in a day thrust out of homes 
no doubt dear to these simple folk. We went past 
gardens and fields, over broken fences, all in the 
way of destruction. Tape-lines pegged to the earth 
guided the engineers, and hundreds of negroes were 
here at work. Near to Cohocsink Creek we met the 
second Miss Chew, riding with her father. He was 
handsome in dark velvet, his hair clubbed and pow- 
dered beneath a flat beaver with three rolls, and at 
his back a queue tied with a red ribbon. He had 
remained quietly inactive and prudent, and, being 
liked, had been let alone by our own party. It is to 
be feared that neither he nor the ribbon was quite 
as neutral as they had been. Miss Margaret looked 
her best. I much dislike “ Peggy,” by which name 
she was known almost to the loss of that fine, full 
“Margaret,” which suited better her handsome, 
uptilted head and well-bred look. 

On the right side rode that other Margaret, Miss 
Shippen, of whom awhile back I spoke, but then 
only as in pretty bud, at the Woodlands. It was a 
fair young rose I now saw bowing in the saddle, a 
woman with both charm and beauty. Long after, 
in London, and in less merry days, she was described 
by Colonel Tarleton as past question the handsomest 


2j6 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


woman In all England. I fear, too, she was the 
saddest. 

“ And where have you kept yourself, Mr. Wynne ? ” 
she asked. “You are a favourite of my father’s, 
you know. I had half a mind not to speak to you.” 

I bowed, and made some gay answer. I could 
not well explain that the officers who filled their 
houses were not to my taste. 

“Let me present you to Mr. Andre,” said Mr. 
Shippen, who brought up the rear. 

“ I have the honour to know Mr. Wynne,” said the 
officer. “We met at Lancaster when I was a pris- 
oner in 76 ; in March, was it not? Mr. Wynne did 
me a most kind service, Montresor. I owe it to him 
that I came to know that loyal gentleman, Mr. Cope, 
and the Yeates people, who at least were loyal to me. 
I have not forgotten it, nor ever shall.” 

I said it was a very small service, and he was kind 
to remember it. 

“ You may well afford to forget it, sir ; I shall not,” 
he returned. He was in full uniform ; not a tall man, 
but finely proportioned, with remarkably regular 
features and a clear complexion which was set off 
to advantage by powdered hair drawn back and tied 
in the usual ribboned queue. 

We rode along in company, happy enough, and 
chatting as we went, Mr. Andre, as always, the life 
of the party. He had the gracious frankness of a 
well-mannered lad, and, as I recall him, seemed far 
younger than his years. He spoke very feelingly 
aside to me of young Macpherson, who fell at Quebec 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 277 


He himself had had the ill luck not to be present 
when that gallant assault was made. He spoke of us 
always as colonials, and not as rebels $ and why was I 
not in the service of the king, or perhaps that was a 
needless question ? 

I told him frankfy that I hoped before long to be 
in quite other service. At this he cried, “So, so! 
I would not say it elsewhere. Is that so? J T is a 
pity, Mr. Wynne j a hopeless cause,” adding, with a 
laugh, that I should not find it very easy to get out 
of the city, which was far too true. I said there were 
many ways to go, but how I meant to leave I did not 
yet know. After I got out I would tell him. We 
had fallen back a little as we talked, the road just 
here not allowing three to ride abreast. 

“ I shall ask the colonel for a pass to join our army,” 
I said merrily. 

“ I would,” said he, as gay as I ; “ but I fear you 
and Mistress Wynne will have no favours. Pray 
tell her to be careful. The Tories are talking.” 

“ Thanks,” said I, as we drew aside to let pass a 
splendid brigade of Hessians, fat and well fed, w T ith 
shining helmets. 

“We are drawing in a lot of men from German- 
town,” said Andre, “but for what I do not know. 
Ah, here comes the artillery ! ” 

I watched them as we all sat in saddle, while regi- 
ment after regiment passed, the women admiring 
their precision and soldierly bearing. For my part, 
I kept thinking of the half-clad, ill-armed men I had 
seen go down these same streets a little while before. 


2 y8 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

“ I will go,” I said to myself ; and in a moment I had 
made one of those decisive resolutions which, once 
made, seem to control me, and to permit no future 
change of plan. 

By this time we were come to the bridge over 
Cohocsink Creek, I having become' self-absorbed and 
silent. The colonel called my attention to his having 
dammed the creek, and thus flooded the low meadows 
for more complete defence. I said, “Yes, yes!” 
being no longer interested. 

Mr. Shippen said, “We will cross over to the 1 Rose 
of Bath ’ and have a little milk-punch before we ride 
back.” This was an inn where, in the garden, was 
a mineral water much prescribed by Dr. Kearsley. 
I excused myself, however, and, pleading an engage- 
ment, rode slowly away. 

I put up my mare in my aunt’s stable, and went 
at once into her parlour, full of my purpose. 

I sat down and told her both the talk of two days 
before with Tarleton and my cousin, and also that I 
had had in my boat. 

She thought I had been foolishly frank, and said, 
“ You have reason to be careful, Hugh. That man 
is dangerous. He would not fight you, because that 
would put an end to his relations with your father. 
Clerk Mason tells me he has already borrowed two 
hundred pounds of my brother. So far I can see,” 
she went on ; “ the rest is dark— that about Wyncote, 
I mean. Darthea, when once she is away, begins to 
criticise him. In a word, Hugh, I think he has 
reason to be jealous.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 279 


u O Aunt Gainor ! n 

“Yes. She does not answer your letters, nor 
should she, hut she answers them to me, the minx ! 
a good sign, sir.” 

“That is not all, aunt. I c-^n stand it no longer. 
I must go ; 1 am going.” 

“ The army, Hugh ? ” 

“ Yes ; my mind is made up. My two homes are 
hardly mine any longer. Every day is a reproach. 
For my father I can do little. His affairs are almost 
entirely wound up. He does not need me. The old 
clerk is better.” 

“ Will it be hard to leave me, my son ? ” 

“ You know it will,” said I. She had risen, tall and 
large, her eyes soft with tears. 

“ You must go,” she said, “ and may God protect 
and keep you. I shall be very lonely, Hugh. But 
you must go. I have long seen it.” 

Upon this, I begged she would see my father often, 
and give me news of him and of Darthea whenever 
occasion served. Then she told me Darthea was to 
return to the city in two days, and she herself would 
keep in mind all I had wished her to do. After this 
I told her of the difficulties I should meet with, and 
we talked them over. Presently she said, “Wait;” 
then left the room, and, coming back, gave me a 
sword the counterpart of Jack’s. 

“ I have had it a year, sir. Let me see,” she cried, 
and would have me put it on, and the sash, and the 
buff-and-blue sword-knot. After this she pat a great 
hand on each shoulder just as she had done with 


280 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

Jack, and, kissing me, said, “War is a sad thing, but 
there are worse things. Be true to the old name, my 
son.” Nor could she bide it a moment longer, but 
hurried out with her lace handkerchief to her eyes, 
saying as she went, “ How shall I bear it ! How shall 
I bear it ! ” 

She also had for me a pair of silver-mounted pistols, 
and an enamelled locket with my mother’s ever dear 
face within, done for her when my mother was 
in England by the famous painter of miniatures, 
Mr. Cosway. 

And now I set about seeing how I was to get away. 
Our own forces lay at PennypackePs Mills, or near 
by ; but this I did not know until later, and neither 
the British nor I were very sure as to their precise 
situation. It was clear that I must go afoot. As 
I walked down Second street with this on my mind, 
I met Colonel Montresor with a group of officers. 
He stopped me, and, after civilly presenting me, 
said: 

“ Harcourt and Johnston ’’—this latter was he who 
later married the saucy Miss Franks and her fortune 
— “ want to know if you have duck-shooting here on 
the Schuylkill.” 

Suddenly, as I stood, I saw my chance and how 
to leave the town. I said, “It is rather early, but 
there are a few ducks in the river. If I had a boat I 
would try it to-morrow, and then perhaps, if I find 
any sport, one of you would join me the day after.” 

“Very good,” said they, as well pleased as I. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 281 


“ And the boat ? ” I said. 

The colonel had one, a rather light skiff, he told 
me. He used it to go up and down to look at the 
bridges he was now busily laying. When I asked 
for its use the next day, he said Yes, if I would send 
him some ducks ; adding that I should need a pass. 
He would send it that evening by a sergeant, and an 
order for the skiff, which lay on this side at the lower 
fercy. I thanked him, and went away happy in the 
success of my scheme. 

I came upon Andre just after. “ Not gone yet f ” 
he said. 

I replied, “ Not yet j but I shall get away.” 

He rejoined that he w'ould not like to bet on that, 
and then went on to say that if my aunt had any 
trouble as to the officers quartered on her, would she 
kindly say so. The Hessians were rough people, and 
an exchange might be arranged. Gentlemen of his 
own acquaintance could be substituted. He himself 
was in Dr. Franklin’s house. It was full of books, 
and good ones too. 

I thanked him, but said I fancied she was Whig 
enough to like the Hessians better. 

On Second street I bought a smock shirt, rough 
shoes, and coarse knit stockings, as well as a good 
snapsack, and, rolling them up securely, left them 
at home in the hay-loft. My sword and other finery I 
must needs leave behind me. I had no friends to say 
good-bye to, and quite late in the evening I merely 
ran in and kissed my aunt, and received eight hun- 


282 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


dred pounds in English notes, her offering to the 
cause, which I was to deliver to the general. Her 
gift to me was one hundred pounds in gold, just 
what she gave to my Jack. The larger sum she had 
put aside by degrees. It embarrassed me, but to 
refuse it would have hurt her. 

I carefully packed my snapsack, putting the gold 
in bags at the bottom, and covering it with the flan- 
nel shirts and extra shoes which made up my outfit. 
I could not resist taking my pistols, as I knew that 
to provide myself as well in camp would not be pos- 
sible. The bank-bills I concealed in my long stock- 
ings, and would gladly have been without them had 
I not seen how greatly this would disappoint my aunt. 
She counted, and wisely, on their insuring me a more 
than favourable reception. Lastly, I got me a small 
compass and some tobacco for Jack. 

It must be hard for you, in this happier day, when 
it is easy to get with speed anywhere on swift and 
well-horsed coaches, to imagine what even a small 
journey of a day or two meant for us. Men who 
rode carried horseshoes and nails. Those who drove 
had in the carriage ropes and a box of tools for re- 
pairs. I was perhaps better off than some who drove 
or rode in those days, for afoot one cannot be stalled, 
nor easily lose a shoe, although between Philadelphia 
and Darby I have known it to happen. 

I knew the country I w^as to travel, and up to a 
point knew it well ; beyond that I must trust to good 
fortune. Early in the evening came a sergeant with 
the promised order for the boat, and a pass signed 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 283 

by Sir William Howe’s adjutant. At ten I bade my 
father good-night and went upstairs, where I wrote 
to him, and inclosed the note in one for my aunt. 
This I gave to Tom, our coachman, with strict orders 
to deliver it late the next day. I had no wish that 
by any accident it should too early betray my true 
purpose. My gun I ostentatiously cleaned in the late 
afternoon, and set in the hall. 

No one but my aunt had the least suspicion of 
what I was in act to do. At last I sat down and 
carefully considered my plan, and my best and most 
rapid way of reaching the army. To go through 
Germantown and Chestnut Hill would have been the 
direct route, for to a surety our army lay somewhere 
nigh to Worcester, which was in the county of Phil- 
adelphia, although of late years I believe in Mont- 
gomery. To go this plain road would have taken me 
through the pickets, and where lay on guard the chief 
of the British army. This would, of course, be full of 
needless risks. It remained to consider the longer road. 
This led me down the river to a point where I must 
leave it, shoulder my snapsack, and trudge down the 
Darby road, or between it and the river. Somewhere 
I must cross the highway and strike across-country 
as I could to the Schuylkill River, and there find 
means to get over at one of the fords. Once well 
away from the main road to Darby and Wilming- 
ton, I should be, I thought, safe. After crossing 
the Schuylkill I hoped to get news which would 
guide me. I hardly thought it likely that the 
English who lay at Germantown and Mount Airy 


284 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


would picket beyond the banks of the Wissahiokon. 
I might have to look out for foraging English west 
of the Schuylkill, but this I must chance. 

I was about to leave home, perhaps forever, but I 
never in my life went to bed with a more satisfied 
heart than I bore that night. 


XVI 



T break of day I woke, and, stealing down- 
stairs, took gun, powder-born, and shot, 
and in the stable loft put tbe ammunition 
in tbe top of my snapsack ; then, quickly 
changing my clothes, concealed those I 
had put off under the hay, and so set out. 

The town was all asleep, and I saw no one until I 
passed the Bettering-house, and the Grenadiers clean- 
ing their guns, aud powdering their queues and hair, 
and thence pushed on to the river. The lower ferry, 
known also as Gray’s, lay just a little south of where 
the Woodlands, Mr. Andrew Hamilton’s house, stood 
among trees high above the quiet river. 

A few tents and a squad of sleepy men were at the 
ferry. I handed my order and pass to the sergeant, 
who looked me over as if he thought it odd that a, 
man of my class should be so equipped to shoot ducks. 
However, he read my pass and the order for the boat, 
pushed the skiff into the water, and proposed, as he 
lifted my snapsack, to let one of his men row me. I 
said No ; I must drift or paddle on to the ducks, and 
would go alone. Thanking him, I pushed out into 
the stream. He wished me good luck, and pocketed 
my shilling. 


28c 




286 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


It was now just sunrise. I paddled swiftly down, 
stream. Not a hundred yards from the ferry I saw 
ducks on the east shore, and, having loaded, paddled 
over to Rambo’s Rock, and was lucky enough to get 
two ducks at a shot. Recrossing, I killed two more 
in succession, and then pushed on, keeping among 
the reeds of the west bank. As I passed Bartram’s 
famous garden, I saw his son near the river, busy, 
as usual, with his innocent flowers. 

A half-mile below I perceived, far back of the 
shore, a few redcoats. Annoyed no little,— for here 
I meant to land,— I turned the boat, still hidden by 
the tall reeds, and soon drew up the skiff at Bartram’s, 
where, taking gun and snapsack, I went up the slope. 
I found Mr. William Bartram standing under a fine 
cypress his father had fetched as a slip from Florida 
in 1731. He was used to see me on the river, but 
looked at my odd costume with as much curiosity as 
the sergeant had done. He told me his father had 
died but ten days before, for which I felt sorry, since, 
except by Friends, who had disowned the good botan- 
ist, he was held in general esteem. I hastily but 
frankly told Mr. Bartram my errand. He said : 

“ Come to the house. A company or two has just 
now passed to relieve the lower fort.” 

After I had a glass of milk, and good store of 
bread and butter, I asked him to accept my gun, and 
that he would do me the kindness to return the skiff, 
and with it to forward a note, for the writing of 
which Mrs Bartram gave me auill and paper. 

I wrote : 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 287 


“Mr. Hugh Wynne presents his compliments to 
Mr. Montresor, and returns his skiff. He desires Mr. 
Montresor to accept two brace of ducks, and begs to 
express his sincere thanks for the pass, which enabled 
Mr. Wynne to make with comfort his way to the army. 
Mr. Wynne trusts at some time to be able to show 
his gratitude for this favour, and meanwhile he re- 
mains Mr. Montresor's obedient, humble servant. 

“ October 1, 1777. 

“ Mr. Wynne's most particular compliments to Mr. 
Andre. It proved easier to escape than Mr. Andre 
thought.” 

I could not help smiling to think of the good colo- 
nel's face when he should read this letter. I glanced 
at the arms over the fireplace, thanked the good 
people warmly, and, as I went out, looked back at 
the familiar words old John Bartram set over the 
door in 1770 : 

? T is God alone, Almighty Lord, 

The Holy One by me adored. 

It seemed the last of home and its associations. I 
turned away, passed through the grounds, which ex- 
tended up to the Darby road, and, after a careful look 
about me, moved rapidly southward. Here and there 
were farm-houses between spurs of the broken forest 
which, with its many farms, stretched far to west- 
ward. I met no one. 

I knew there was a picket at the Blue Bell Inn, 
and so, before nearing it, I struck into a woodland, 
and, avoiding the farms, kept to the northwest until 


288 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


I came on to a road which I saw at once to be Gray’s 
Lana, Unused to guiding myself by compass, I had 
again gotten dangerously near to the river. I pushed 
up the lane to the west, and after half an hour came 
upon a small hamlet, where I saw an open forge and 
a sturdy smith at work. In a moment I recognised 
my old master, Lowry, the farrier. I asked the way 
across- country to the Schuylkill. He stood a little, 
resting on his hammer, not in the least remembering 
me. He said it was difficult. I must take certain 
country lanes until I got into the Lancaster road, 
and so on. 

I did not wish to get into the main highway, where 
foragers or outlying parties might see fit to be too 
curious. I said at last, “ Dost not thou know thy old 
prentice, Hugh Wynne ? ” 

I felt sure of my man, as he had been one of the 
Sons of Liberty, and had fallen out with Friends in 
consequence, so that I did not hesitate to relate my 
whole story. He was pleased to see me, and bade me 
enter and see his wife. As we stood consulting, a 
man cried out at the door : 

“ Here are more Hessians.” And as he spoke we 
heard the notes of a bugle. 

“ Put me somewhere,” I said, “ and quick.” 

“No,” he cried. “Here, set your snapsack back 
of this forge. Put on this leather apron. Smudge 
your face and hands.” 

It took me but a minute, and here I was, grimy 
and black, a smith again, with my sack hid under a 
lot of old iron and a broken bellows. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 289 


As they rode up— some two dozen yagers— I let 
fall the bellows handle, at which my master had set 
me to work, and went out to the doorway. There, 
not at all to my satisfaction, I saw the small Hessian, 
Captain von Heiser, our third and least pleasant 
boarder, the aide of General Knyphausen. Worse 
still, he was on Lucy. It was long before I knew 
how this came to pass. They had two waggons, and, 
amidst the lamentations of the hamlet, took chickens, 
pigs, and grain, leaving orders oh the paymaster, 
which, I am told, were scrupulously honoured. 

Two horses needed shoeing at once, and then I was 
told Lucy had a loose shoe, and my master called me 
a lazy dog, and bid me quit staring or I would get a 
strapping, and to see to the gentleman’s mare, and 
that in a hurry. It was clear the dear thing knew 
me ; for she put her nose down to my side to get the 
apples I liked to keep for her in my side pockets. I 
really thought she would betray me, so clearly did 
she seem to me to understand that here was a friend 
she knew. A wild thought came over me to mount 
her and ride for my life. No horse there of the heavy 
Brandenburgers could have kept near her. It would 
have been madness, of course, and so I took my six- 
pence with a touch of my felt hat, and saw my dear Lucy 
disappear in a cloud of dust, riding toward the town. 

“That was a big risk for thee,” said the smith, 
wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. 
“I will mount and ride with thee across-country 
through the Welsh Barony. There thou wilt not 
be far from the river. It is a good ten-mile business.” 

19 


290 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


After a little, when I had had some milk and ram, 
the horses were saddled, and we crossed by an ox- 
road through the forest past the settlement of Card- 
ington, and then forded Cobb’s Creek. A cross-road 
carried us into the Haverford road, and so on by 
wood- ways to the old Welsh farms beyond Merion. 

We met no one on the way save a farmer or two, 
and here, being near to the Schuylkill, my old master 
farrier took leave of me at the farm of Edward Mas- 
ters, which lay in our way, and commended me to 
the care of this good Free Quaker. 

There I was well fed, and told I need to look out 
only on this side the river for Tories. They were worse 
than Hessianers, he said, and robbed like highway- 
men. In fact, already the Tories who came confidently 
back with the British army had become a terror to all 
peaceful folk between Sweedsboro and our own city. 
Their bands acted under royal commissions, some as 
honest soldiers, but some as the enemies of any who 
owned a cow or a barrel of flour, or from whom, 
under torture, could be wrested a guinea. All who 
were thus organised came at length to be dreaded, 
and this whether they were bad or better. Friend 
Masters had suffered within the week, but, once over 
the Schuylkill, he assured me, there need be no fear, 
as our own partisans and foragers were so active to 
the north of the stream as to make it perilous for 
Tories. 

With this caution, my Quaker friend went with 
me a mile, and set me on a wood path. I must be 
put over at Hagy’s Ford, he feared, as the river was 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 291 


in flood and too high for a horse to wade j nor was 
it much better at Young’s Ford above. Finally he 
said, “ The ferryman is Peter Skinner, and as bad as 
the Jersey Tories of that name. If thou dost perceive 
him to talk Friends’ language in reply to thy own 
talk, thou wilt do well to doubt what he may tell thee. 
He is not of our society. He cannot even so speak 
as that it will deceive. Hereabouts it is thought he 
is in league with Fitz.” I asked who was Fitz. He 
was one, I was told, who had received some lashes 
when a private in our army, and had deserted. The 
British, discovering his capacity, now used him as a 
forager ; but he did not stop at hen-roosts. 

With this added warning, I went on, keeping north 
until I came to the Rock road, by no means mis- 
named, and so through Merion Square to Hagy’s Ford 
Lane and the descent to the river. I saw few people 
on the way. The stream was in a freshet, and not to 
be waded. My ferryman was caulking a dory. I said : 

“Wilt thou set me across, friend, and at what 
charge ? ” 

To this he replied, “ Where is thee bound ? ” 

I said, “ To White Marsh.” 

“ Thee is not of these parts.” 

“No.” 

He was speaking the vile tongue which now all 
but educated Friends speak, and even some of these $ 
but at that time it was spoken only by the vulgar. 

“ It will cost thee two shillings.” 

“ Too much,” said I ; “ but thou hast me caught. 
I must over, and that soon.” 


292 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


He was long about getting ready, and now and 
then looked steadily across the stream j but as to this 
I was not troubled, as I knew that, once beyond it, 
I was out of danger. 

I paid my fare, and left him looking after me up 
the deep cut which led to the more level uplands. 
Whistling gaily, and without suspicion, I won the 
hilltop by what I think they called Ship Lane. 

Glad to be over Schuylkill and out of the way of 
risks, I sat down by the roadside at the top of the 
ascent. The forest was dense with underbrush on 
either side, and the hickories, and below them the 
sumachs, were already rich with the red and gold of 
autumn. Being rather tired, I remained at rest at 
least for a half-hour in much comfort of body and 
mind. I had been strongly urged by my love for 
Darthea to await her coming ; but decisions are and 
were with me despotic, and, once I was of a mind to 
go, not even Darthea could keep me. Yet to leave 
her to my cousin and his wiles I hated. The more 
I discussed him in the council of my own thoughts, 
the more I was at a loss. His evident jealousy of 
one so much younger did seem to me, as it did to my 
aunt, singular. And why should he wish me to be 
away, as clearly he did ? and why also malign me to 
my father ? I smiled to think I was where his malice 
could do me no harm, and, rising, pulled my snapsack 
straps up on my shoulders, and set my face to the 
east. 

Of a sudden I heard to left, “ Halt, there ! r I 
saw a long rifle covering me, and above the brush 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 293 


a man’s face. Then stepped out to right, as I obeyed 
the order, a fellow in buckskin shirt and leggings, 
with a pistol. I cried out, “ I surrender ; ” for what 
else could I do ? Instantly a dozen men, all armed, 
were in the road, and an ill-looking lot they were. 
The leader, a coarse fellow, was short and red of 
face, and much pimpled. He had hair half a foot 
long, and a beard such as none wore in those days. 

I had but time to say meekly, “Why dost thou 
stop me, friend ? ” when he jerked off my sack and, 
plunging a hand inside, pulled out a pistol. 

“ A pretty Quaker ! Here,” and he put back the 
pistol, crying, as the men laughed, “ sergeant, strap 
this on your back. Quick ! fetch out the horses ; we 
will look him over later. Up with him behind Joe ! 
Quick— a girth! We have no time to waste. A 
darned rebel spy ! No doubt Sir William may like 
to have him.” 

In truth, no time was lost nor any ceremony used, 
and here was I strapped to the waist of a sturdy 
trooper, behind whom I was set on a big-boned roan 
horse, and on my way home again. 

“Which way, Captain Fitz?” said the sergeant. 
“ The ford is high.” In a moment we were away, in 
all, as I noted, about a score. 

The famous Tory chief— he was no better than 
a bold thief— made no reply, but rode northwest 
with his following for a lower ford, as I fancied. 
He went at speed through the open pine forest, 
I, my hands being free, holding on to my man as 
well as I could, and, as you may suppose, not very 


294 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


happy, A mile away we came out on a broad road. 
Here the captain hesitated, and of a sudden turned 
to left toward the river, crying loudly, with an oath, 
“ Follow me ! ” The cause was plain. 

Some twenty troopers came out into the road not 
a hundred yards distant, and instantly rode down on 
us at a run. Before we could get as swift a pace, 
they were close upon us ; and then it was a wild and 
perilous race downhill for the river, with yells, curses, 
and pistol-balls flying, I as helpless, meanwhile, as 
a child. The big roan kept well up to the front 
near the captain. Looking back, through dust and 
smoke, I saw our pursuers were better horsed and 
were gaining. A man near me dropped, and a horse 
went down. With my left hand I caught hold of the 
strap which fastened me to the rascal in the saddle. 
He was riding for life, and too scared to take note of 
the act. I gave the buckle a quick jerk, and it came 
loose, and the strap fell. I clutched the man by the 
throat with my right hand, and squeezed his gullet 
with a death-grip. He made with his right hand for a 
holster pistol, losing his stirrups, and kicking as 
if in a fit. I only tightened my grip, and fetched 
him a crack under the left ear with my unengaged 
hand. He was reeling in the saddle when, at this 
instant, I was aware of a horseman on my right. I 
saw a sabre gleam in air above us, and, letting go 
my scamp’s throat, I ducked quickly below his left 
shoulder as I swung him to left, meaning to chance 
a fall. He had, I fancy, some notion of his peril, for 
he put up his hand and bent forward. I saw the 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 295 


flash of a blade, and, my captor’s head falling for- 
ward, a great spont of blood shot back into my face, 
as the paii* of ns tumbled together headlong from 
his horse. I was dimly conscious of yells, oaths, a 
horse leaping over me, and for a few seconds knew 
no more. Then I sat up, wiped the blood away, and 
saw what had happened. 

The trooper lay across me dead, his head nearly 
severed from the trunk, and spouting great jets of 
blood. A half-dozen dead or wounded were scattered 
along the road. Not a rod away was the sergeant 
who had my sack pinned under his horse, and far 
ahead, in a cloud of dust, that terrible swordsman 
riding hard after the bandit. Fitz, well mounted, got 
off, I may add, and, with three or four, swam the 
river, living to be hanged, as he well deserved. 

By the time I was up and staggering forward, bent 
on recovering my sack, the leader, who had given up 
the chase, rode toward me. I must have been a queer 
and horrid figure. I was literally covered with blood 
and mud. The blood was everywhere,— in my hair, 
over my face, and down my neck, — but I wanted my 
precious sack. 

“ Halt ! ” he cried out. “ Here, corporal, tie this 
fellow.” 

“Pardon me,” said I, now quite myself. “I was 
the prisoner of these rascals.” 

“ Indeed ? Your name ? ” 

“ Hugh Wynne.” 

“ Where from ? ” 

“ From the city.” 


296 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ Where to ? ” 

“ To join the army.” 

“ Your business ? What are you ? n 

“ Gentleman.” 

“ Good heavens ! you are a queer one ! We shall 
see. Are you hurt? No? Great Caesar! you are 
an awful sight ! ” 

“I was tied to that fellow you disposed of, and 
with your permission I will get my snapsack yonder.” 

« Good ; get it. Go with him, corporal, and keep 
an eye on him.” 

In a half-hour the dead were stripped and pitched 
aside, the wounded cared for in haste, and the horses 
caught. 

“ Can you ride ? ” said my captor. “ By George, 
you must ! ” 

“ Yes, I can ride.” 

“ Then up with you. Give him a leg.” 

I wanted none, and was up in a moment on the 
bare back of a big farm mare ; their errand had been, 
I learned, the purchase of horses. The captain bade 
me ride with him, and, turning north, we rode away, 
while the big brute under me jolted my sore bones. 

“And now,” said the captain, “let me hear, Mr. 
Wynne, what you have to say. Take a puli at my 
flask.” 

I did so, and went on to relate my adventures 
briefly— the duck-shooting, which much amused him, 
the escape at the forge, and what else seemed to be 
needed to set myself right. He looked me over again 
keenly. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 297 


u You had a close thing of it.” 

“ Yes,” said I ; “ you are a terrible swordsman, and 
a good one, if you will pardon me.” 

“ I meant to cut him on the head, but he put his 
neck where his head should have been. There is 
one rascal the less ; but I missed the leader. Hang 
him!” 

“ He will take care of that,” said I. 

Then my companion said I must join his troop, 
and would I excuse his rough dealing with me f 

I declared myself well content, and explained as to 
his offer that I was much obliged, and would think 
it over ; but that I desired first to see the army, and 
to find my friend, Captain Warder, of the Pennsyl- 
vania line. 

“ Yes ; a stout man and dark 1 ” 

“No; slight, well built, a blond.” 

“ Good ; I know him. I was testing your tale, Mr. 
Wynne. One has need to be careful in these times.” 
For a few moments he was silent, and then asked 
sharply, “ Where did you cross ? ” 

I told him. 

“ And are there any outlying pickets above the 
upper ferry on the west bank?” 

I thought not, and went on to tell of the bridging 
of the river, of the lines of forts, and of the positions 
held in the city by the Grenadiers and the High- 
landers. A large part of the army, I said, was being 
withdrawn from Germantown, I supposed with a 
view to attack the forts below the city. 

“ What you say is valuable, Mr. Wynne.” And ho 


298 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


quickened tlie pace with an order, and pushed on at 
speed. 

It seemed to me time to know into whose company 
I had fallen, and who was the hardy and decisive 
rider at my side. 

“ May I take the liberty to ask with what command 
I am!” 

11 Certainly. I am Allan McLane, at your service. 
I will talk to you later; now I want to think over 
what you have told me. I tried to get into the city 
last week, dressed as an old woman ; they took my 
eggs— Lord, they were aged!— but I got no farther 
than the middle ferry. Are you sure that troops are 
being withdrawn from Germantown ? ” 

I said I was, and in large numbers. After this we 
rode on in silence through the twilight. I glanced 
now and then at my companion, the boldest of our 
partisan leaders, and already a sharp thorn in the 
side of General Howe’s extended line. He was slight, 
well made, and dark, with some resemblance to 
Arthur Wynne, but with no weak lines about a 
mouth which, if less handsome than my cousin’s, was 
far more resolute. 

I was ready to drop from my rough steed when we 
began, about nine at night, to see the camp-fires of 
our army on either side of Skippack Creek. A halt 
at the pickets, and we rode on around the right flank 
among rude huts, rare tents, rows of spaneelled 
horses, — we call it “ hobbled” nowadays, — and so at 
last to a group of tents, the headquarters of the small 
cavalry division. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 299 


“ Halt ! ” I heard ; and I literally almost tumbled 
off my horse, pleased to see the last of him. 

“ This way, sir,” said McLane. “ Here is my tent. 
There is a flask under the pine-needles. I have no 
feather-bed to offer. Get an hour’s rest ; it is all you 
can have just now. When I find out the headquar- 
ters, you must ride again.” And he was gone. 

I found a jug of water and a towel j but my at- 
tempts to get the blood and mud out of my hair and 
neck were quite vain. I gave it up at last. Then I 
nearly emptied the flask which McLane had left me, 
set my sack under my head, pulled up a blanket, and 
in a minute was out of the world of war and sound 
asleep. 

I do not know how long my slumber lasted on my 
fragrant bed of pine. I heard a voice say, “ Are you 
dead, man ? ” And shaken roughly, I sat up, confused, 
and for a moment wondering where I was. 

“ Come,” said McLane. “ Oh, leave your sack.” 

“No,” I said, not caring to explain why. 

In a moment I was in the saddle, as fresh as need 
be, the cool October night- wind in my face. 

“ Where are we bound ? ” I asked. 

“ Headquarters. I want you to tell your own news. 
Hang the man ! ” We had knocked down a lurching 
drunkard, but McLane stayed to ask no questions, 
and in a half-hour we pulled up in the glare of a huge 
fire, around which lay aides, some asleep and others 
smoking. A few yards away was a row of tents. 

McLane looked about him. “ Holloa, Hamilton ! ” 
he cried to a slight young man lying at the fire. 


300 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ Tell his Excellency I am here. I have news of im- 
portance.” 

A moment after, the gentleman, who was to become 
so well known and to die so needlessly, came back, 
and we followed him to the largest of the tents. As 
he lifted the fly he said, “Captain McLane to see 
yonr Excellency.” 

On a plain farm-house table were four candles, 
dimly lighting piles of neatly folded papers, a simple 
camp-bed, two or three wooden stools, and a camp- 
chest. The officer who sat bareheaded at the table 
pushed aside a map and looked up. I was once more 
in the presence of Washington. Both McLane and 
I stood waiting— I a little behind. 

“ Whom have you here, sir ? ” 

“Mr. Wynne, a gentleman who has escaped in 
disguise to join the army 0 He has news which may 
interest your Excellency.” As he spoke I came 
forward. 

“ Are you wounded, sir ? ” 

“ No,” said I ; “ it is another man’s blood, not mine ” 
He showed no further curiosity, nor any sign of the 
amazement I had seen in the faces of his aides-de 
camp on my appearance at the camp-fire. 

“ Pray be seated, gentlemen. Do me the favour, 
Captain McLane, to ask Colonel Hamilton to return. 
Mr. Wynne, you said?” 

“Yes, your Excellency.” 

Then, to set myself right, I told him that I had had 
the honour to have met him at the house of my aunt, 
Mistress Wynne. “ With permission, sir,” I added, 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 301 


“I am charged to deliver to your Excellency eight 
hundred pounds which Mistress Wynne humbly 
trusts may be of use to the cause of liberty.” So 
saying, I pulled the English notes out of my long 
stockings and laid them before him. 

“I could desire many recruits like you” he said. 
“ Mr. Hamilton, I beg to present Mr. Wynne. Have 
the kindness to make memoranda of what he may 
tell us.” He spoke with deliberation, as one who had 
learned to weigh his words, not omitting any of the 
usual courteous forms, more common at that time 
than in our less formal day. General Knox came in 
as we sat down. 

He was a sturdy man with a slight stoop, and had 
left his book-shop in Boston to become the trusted 
friend and artillery officer of the great Virginian, 
who chose his men with slight regard to the tongues 
of the Southern officers, for whom they were too 
often “ shopkeepers ” or “ mere traders.” 

“Report of court martial on Daniel Plympton, 
deserter,” said Knox. The general took the papers, 
and for ten minutes at least was intently concerned 
with what he read. Then he took a pen and wrote 
a line and his name, and, looking up, said, “ Approved, 
of course. Parade his regiment at daybreak for exe- 
cution Your pardon, gentlemen.” And at once he 
began to put to me a series of questions rather slowly. 
The absence of hurry surprised me, young as I was, 
and not yet apt to take in all I might see. Every 
minute some one appeared. There were papers to 
sign, aides coming and going, impatient sounds with- 


302 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


out, a man’s death decreed j but with no sign of haste 
he went on to finish. 

At last he rose to his feet, we also standing, of 
course. “Are you sure that Sir William has re- 
called any large force from Germantown ?— any large 
force ? ” 

I knew that the Grenadiers and many Hessians had 
come in, and a considerable part of the artillery, but 
to what extent or precisely in what numbers I could 
not be sure. He seemed to me to be intensely con- 
sidering what I told him. 

At last he said, “You must be tired. You have 
brought much needed help, and also good news.” 
Why good I did not then understand. “And now 
what do you desire? How can I serve you, Mr. 
Wynne ? ” 

I said I wished to be in the ranks for a time, 
until I learned a little more of the duty. 

He made no comment, but turning to McLane, 
said, “ Captain McLane, you will care for this gen- 
tleman. I trust occasion may serve, Mr. Wynne, to 
enable me to offer Mistress Wynne my thanks. When 
you desire a commission, Mr. Hamilton will kindly 
remind me of the service you have done your coun- 
try to-day. You have acted with your usual discre- 
tion, Captain McLane. Good-night, gentlemen.” 
We bowed and went out 

On our way back we rode a footpace, while the 
captain, now ready enough to talk, answered my 
many questions. “Yes; the general was a reserved, 
tranquil man, with a chained-up devil inside of him ; 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 303 


could lay a whip over a black fellow’s back if a horse 
were ill groomed, or call a man— and he a general 

—a d drunkard; but that would be in the heat 

of a fight. An archbishop would learn to swear in 
the army, and the general had no more piety than 
was good for men who were here to commit murder.” 

The next day I set out afoot, as I preferred, to look 
for Jack, and a nice business I found it. The army 
was moving down the Skippack road to Worcester 
towmship, and the whole march seemed, to me at least, 
one great bewildering confusion of dust, artillery, 
or waggons stalled, profane aides going hither and 
thither, broken fences, women standing at farm-house 
doors, white and crying, as the long line of our foot 
passed ; and over all rang sharp the clink and rattle 
of flanking cavalry as the horse streamed by, tram- 
pling the ruddy buckwheat-fields, and through rav- 
aged orchards and broken gardens. Overhead, in a 
great cloud high in air, the fine dust was blown down 
the line by the east wind. It was thick and oppres- 
sive, choking man and horse with an exacting thirst, 
mocked by empty wells and defiled brooks. No one 
knew where any one else was, and in all my life, save 
on one memorable evening, I never heard as great a 
variety of abominable language. 

I had done my best, by some change of under- 
clothes and the industrious use of soap and water, to 
make my appearance less noticeable ; but it was still 
bad enough, because I had no outer garments except 
those I was wearing. Had I been better dressed, I 
had fared better ; for in those days clothes were con- 


304 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


sidered, and you might easily tell by his costume if a 
man were a mechanic, a farmer, a small trader, or a 
gentleman. 

I fell at last upon an officer who was endeavouring 
to get his horse a share of wa}^side ditch water. I 
said to him, seeing my chance, that his horse had 
picked up a stone; if he would wait a moment I 
would knock it out. On this, and upon his thank- 
ing me, I asked where I might find Wayne’s brigade, 
for in it, as I knew, was my captain of the Third 
Pennsylvania Continental foot. He told me it was 
a mile ahead. Comforted by this news, I walked on, 
keeping chiefly in the fields, for there alone was it 
possible to get past the marching columns. 

About eleven there was a halt. I passed a lot of 
loose women in carts, many canvas-covered commis- 
sary waggons, footsore men fallen out, and some 
asleep in the fields,— all the scum and refuse of an 
army,— with always dust, dust, so that man, beast, 
waggons, and every green thing were of one dull 
yellow. Then there was shouting on the road ; the 
stragglers fled left and right, a waggon of swearing 
women turned over into a great ditch, and with 
laughter, curses, and crack of whip, two well-liorsed 
cannon and caissons bounded over the field, crashing 
through a remnant of snake fence, and so down the 
road at speed. I ran behind them, glad of the gap 
they left. About a mile farther they pulled up, and 
going by I saw with joy the red and buff of the 
Pennsylvania line. Behind them there was an 
interval, and thus the last files were less dusty. But 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 305 


for this I should have gone past them. A soldier 
told me that this was the regiment I sought, and, 
searching the ranks eagerly as they stood at ease, I 
walked swiftly along. 

“ Holloa ! ” I shouted. I saw Jack look about him. 
“ Jack ! ” I cried. He ran to me as I spoke. I think 
I should have kissed him but for the staring soldiers. 
In all my life I never was so glad. There was brief 
time allowed for greetings. “ Fall in ! fall in ! ” I 
heard. “ March ! ” 

u Come along,” he said. And walking beside him, 
I poured out news of home, of my Aunt Gainor, and 
of myself. 

A mile beyond we halted close to the road near to 
Methacton Hill, where, I may add, we lay that night 
of October 2. Having no tents, Jack and I slept 
on the ground rolled up in Holland blankets, and 
sheltered in part by a wicky-up, which the men con- 
trived cleverly enough. 

I saw on our arrival how— automatically, as it 
seemed to me— the regiments found camping-grounds, 
and how well the ragged men arranged for shelters 
of boughs, or made tents with two rails and a blanket. 
The confusion disappeared. Sentries and pickets 
were posted, fires were lit, and food cooked. The 
order of it seemed to me as mysterious as the seem- 
ing disorder of the march. 

After some talk with Jack, I concluded to serve as 
a volunteer, at least for a few weeks, and learn the 
business better before I should decide to accept the 
general’s kindness. Accordingly I took my place 
20 


306 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

in the ranks of Jack’s company, and, confiding most 
of my gold to his care, kept in a belt under my 
clothes not more than six guineas, as I remember. 
No uniform was to be had at any price ; but I was 
hardly worse off than half of the men who made up 
our company. A musket, and what else was wanted, 
I obtained without trouble, and as to the drill, I knew 
it well enough, thanks to the Irish sergeant who had 
trained us at home. 

Our duties, of course, kept us much apart— that is, 
Jack and myself; but as he made use, or pretended 
to make use, of me as an orderly, I was able to see 
more of him than otherwise would have been possi- 
ble. My pistols I asked him to use until I could 
reclaim them, and I made him happy with the to- 
bacco I brought, and which I soon saw him divid- 
ing among other officers ; for what was Jack’s was 
always everybody’s. And, indeed, because of this 
generosity he has been much imposed upon by the 
selfish. 


XVII 



JN this night of the 2d of October, Jack 
told me we should move next morning 
or the day after. He had seen General 
Wayne on an errand for our colonel. 
“A strong talker, the general; but as 
ready to fight as to talk.” In fact, ammunition was 
issued, and before dawn on the 4th the myriad noises 
of an army breaking camp aroused me. It was a 
gray morning over-head, and cool. When we fell 
into line to march, Jack called me out of the ranks. 

u There will be a fight, Hugh. Mr. Howe has sent 
troops into Jersey, and weakened his hold on the 
village, or so it is thought. In fact, you know that, 
for it was you that fetched the news. If— I should 
get killed— you will tell your aunt— not to forget me 
—and Darthea too. And my father— my father, 
Hugh— I have written to him and to Miss Wynne— 
in case of accident.” The day before a fight Jack 
was always going to be killed. I do not think I ever 
thought I should be hit. I had, later in the war, a 
constant impression that, if I were, it would be in the 
stomach, and this idea I much disliked. I fell to 
thinking of Darthea and Jack, wondering a little, 


308 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


until the drum and fife struck up, and at the word 
we stepped out. 

I have no intention to describe more of the fight 
at Germantown than I saw, and that was but little. 
It seemed to me confusion worse confounded, and 
I did not wonder that Graydon had once written 
me from the North that we were in a “ scuffle for 
liberty.” The old village was then a long, broken 
line of small, gray stone houses, set in gardens on 
each side of the highway, with here and there a 
larger mansion, like the Chew House, Cliveden, and 
that of the Wisters. 

The ascent from the city is gradual. At Mount 
Airy it is more abrupt, and yet more steep at Chest- 
nut Hill, where my aunt’s house, on the right, looks 
down on broken forests, through which the centre 
marched by the Perkiomen road. The fight on our 
right wing I knew nothing of for many a day. 

As we tramped on our march of many miles, the 
fog which the east wind brought us grew thicker, 
but there was less dust. Soon after dusk of morn- 
ing we came out of the woods, and moved up the 
ascent of Chestnut Hill, where I wondered to find 
no defences. There were scarce any houses here- 
abouts, and between the hill and the descent to Mount 
Airy our own regiment diverged to the left, off the 
road. There were hardly any fences to trouble us, 
and where the lines were broken by gardens or 
hedges, we went by and remade the line, which was 
extended more to left as we moved away from the 
highway 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 309 


At length we were halted. I was thinking of the 
glad days I had spent hereabouts when we heard to 
right the rattle of muskets. McLane had driven in 
the advance picket of the enemy. Then the right of 
our own force fell on some British light infantry, 
and, swinging the left on the right as a pivot, our 
own flanking regiment faced their guns, so that we 
w^ere in part back on the main road. The sun came 
out for a little, but the fog thickened, and it was lost. 
I saw Jack look at me, and noticed how flushed he 
was, and that his face was twitching. So heavy was 
the fog that, as we saw the guns, we were almost on 
them. To see fifty feet ahead was impossible. I saw 
two red flashes as the muskets rang out. There were 
wild cries, quick orders : “ Fire ! fire ! ” And with a 
great shout we ran forward, I hearing Jack cry, 
“ The bayonet ! the bayonet ! ” I saw in the smoke 
and fog men fall to right and left, and in a moment 
was after Jack, who stood between the guns, fencing 
with two big grenadiers. I clubbed one of them with 
my butt, and Jack disposed of the second. 

Meanwhile the English line had broken, and men 
who had fallen hurt or were standing were crying 
for quarter. I saw none given. It was horrible. Our 
men were paying a sad debt, contracted on the 20th 
of September, when Grey surprised Wayne at Paoli, 
and there were no wounded left and few prisoners. 

It was a frightful scene, and when the officers suc- 
ceeded to stop the slaughter, the account had been 
mercilessly settled, and there was scarce a living 
enemy in sight. Hastily reforming, we went on 


3 ID 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


again, more to left of the main road, through tents, 
scattered baggage, dying horses, and misty red 
splotches where the scarlet uniforms lay thick on the 
wet grass. As we pushed on, the fog broke a little, 
and a confused mass of redcoats was seen, some 
running, and some following tumultuously their colo. 
nel, Musgrave, into the solid stone house of Clive- 
den, while the larger number fled down the road and 
over the fields. 

Meanwhile Sullivan’s people came up. Two cannon 
set across the road— they were but four-pounders— 
opened with small effect on the stone house. The 
fire from the windows was fierce and fatal. Men 
dropped here and there, until Jack called to us to 
lie down. We were at this time behind the mansion. 
As we lay, I saw Jack walking to and fro, and coolly 
lighting a pipe. Our company lay to the left a little, 
and away from the rest of the regiment. I called 
to J ack : 

“Let us rush it, Jack, and batter down the back 
door.” 

J ack, as I rose, called out to me, with a fierce oath, 
to keep still and obey orders. I dropped, and as I 
did so saw an officer with a white flag shot down as 
he went forward to ask a surrender. 

Then we were ordered to march, leaving a regiment 
to continue the siege ; a half-hour had been lost. We 
went at a run quite two miles down the slope, now 
on, now off the main street, with red gleams now and 
then seen through this strangeness of fog. The Brit- 
ish were flying, broken and scattered, over the fields. 


0 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 31 1 


I heard “ Halt ! ” as we swung parallel with the 
road at the market-place, where the Grenadiers made 
a gallant stand, as was known by the more orderly 
platoon firing. Then we, too, broke out in great 
blaze, and after, what with fog and smoke, a fight in 
a cellar were as good. 

The next minute our people came down the high- 
way, and, between the two fires, the English again 
gave way. I heard, “Forward ! We have ’em ! ” Some 
near me hesitated, and I saw J ack run by me crying, 
“ The bayonet, men ! After me!” I saw no more 
of J ack for many a day. W e were in the wide market- 
place — a mob of furious men, blind with fog and 
smoke, stabbing, clubbing, striking, as chance served. 
My great personal strength helped me well. Twice 
I cleared a space, until my musket broke. I fell 
twice, once with a hard crack on the head from the 
butt of a musket. As some English went over me, 
I stabbed at them madly, and got a bayonet thrust 
in my left arm. I was up in a moment, and for a 
little while, quite unarmed, was in the middle of a 
confused mass of men raging and swearing like mani- 
acs. Suddenly there was no one to be seen near me ; 
the noise of muskets, the roar of cannonry, red flashes 
in the fog in front— that was all, as I stood panting 
and dazed. Next I heard wild cries back of me, and 
the crash of musketry. Stephens’s division, coming 
up behind us, began to fire, mistaking us, in the in- 
fernal darkness, for an enemy. Our people broke 
under it, and, passing me, ran, beaten ; for the panic 
spread in the very moment of victory. 


3 i 2 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 


1 turned, not understanding, stumbled over a dead 
man, and suddenly felt as if a stone had struck my 
left leg above the knee. I fell instantly, and for a 
time — I do not know how long-lost consciousness. 
It could have been but a few moments. 

When I came to myself, I got up, confused and 
giddy, and began to walk, but with painful difficulty, 
stumbling over dead or wounded men. Our people 
were gone, and 1 saw no one for a little, till I heard 
the quick tramp of feet and saw through the fog the 
red line of a marching regiment almost upon me. I 
made an effort to fall to one side of the street, but 
dropped again, and once more knew notliing. I 
think they went over me. When evening came, I 
found myself lying with others on the sidewalk in 
front of the Wister house. How I was taken thither 
I know as little as any. I was stiff, sore, and bloody, 
but soon able to look about me. I found a bandage 
around my leg, and felt in no great pain unless I 
tried to move. Men in red coats came and went, but 
none heeded my cry for water, until an old servant- 
woman, who during the fight had refused to leave 
the house, brought me a drink. I knew her well. I 
tried to tell her who I was, but my parched tongue 
failed me, and a rough corporal bade her begone. 
My watch, a good silver one, was stolen, but my 
money-belt was safe. 

Beside me were many other wounded, one man 
hideous with his jaw broken ; he seemed to me dying. 
By and by soldiers fetched others. Then a detach- 
ment of Virginians went past, in their fringed skin 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 313 


shirts, prisoners, black with smoke, dirty and sullen. 
Surgeons’ aids came and went in and out, and soon 
the sidewalk was crowded with the wounded. At last 
they carried a dying general into the house. I asked 
his name, but no one answered me. It was the brig- 
adier Agnew, now lying at rest in the lower burial- 
ground by Fisher’s Lane. 

An officer came and counted us like sheep. About 
nine a row of carts stopped,— country waggons seized 
for the purpose,— and, with small tenderness, we 
were told to get in, or at need lifted in. I was put, 
with eight others, in a great Conestoga wain without 
a cover. Soon a detachment of horse arrived, and 
thus guarded, we were carted away like logs. 

The road was never good, but now it was full of 
holes and cut up by the wheels of artillery. I shall 
never forget the misery of that ride. I set my teeth 
and resolved to utter no groan. Before us and be- 
hind us were many loads of wounded men, chiefly 
such as seemed fit to travel. There were nine of us. 
One was dead before we reached town. As we jolted 
on, and the great wain rocked, I heard the crack 
of the drivers’ whips, and far and near, in the dark- 
ness or near beside me, curses, prayers, mad screams 
of pain, or men imploring water. 

When near to Nicetown, came on a cold, heavy 
rain which chilled us to shivering. I let my hand- 
kerchief get soaked, and sucked it. Then I wet it 
again— the rain a torrent— and gave it into the hand 
of him who was next me. He could not use his arm, 
nor could I turn to aid him, nor did he answer me. 


314 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


At times we waited on the way, so that it was one 
in the morning when we found ourselves in Chestnut 
street in front of the State-House. It was still dis- 
mally raining. We were told to get out, and with 
help I did so, a line of soldiers standing on each side $ 
but no one else near, and it was too dark to see if 
any whom I knew were to be seen. When they pulled 
out the man next to me, his head fell, and it was 
clear that he was dead. He was laid on the sidewalk, 
and we were helped or made to crawl upstairs to the 
long room in the second story. 

Here some surgeons 7 mates came and saw to us 
quite patiently. Soldiers fetched bread and water. 
I asked a pleasant kind of youth, a surgeon’s aid, 
to let my aunt know of my condition. He said he 
would, and, without the least doubt that he would 
keep his word, I managed to get into a position of 
partial ease, and, sure of early relief, lay awaiting 
the sleep which came at last when I was weary with 
listening to the groans of less patient men. The 
young surgeon never troubled himself with the de- 
livery of my message. May the Lord reward him ! 


XVIII 



HE mad screams of a man in an agony 
of pain awoke me on this Sunday, Octo- 
ber 5, at daybreak. The room was a 
sorry sight. Some had died in the night, 
and were soon carried out for burial. I 
lay still, in no great pain, and reflected on the swift 
succession of events of the past week. I had had 
bad luck, but soon, of course, my aunt or father 
would know of my misfortune. As I waited for what 
might come, I tried to recall the events of the battle. 
I found it almost impossible to gather them into 
consecutive clearness, and often since I have won- 
dered to hear men profess to deliver a lucid history 
of what went on in some desperate struggle of war. 
I do not believe it to be possible. 

Being always of a sanguine turn of mind, I 
waited, full of comforting hope. About five, after 
some scant food, we were told to get up and go down- 
stairs. It was still dark because of the continuous 
rain and overcast skies. I refused to walk, and was 
lifted by two men and put in a waggon. A few early 
idlers were around the door to see us come out. I 
looked eagerly for a face I knew, but saw none. Our 
ride was short. We went down Sixth street, and 



316 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


drew up at the Walnut street front of the prison* 
called, while the British held the town, the Provost. 
It was unfinished, a part being temporarily roofed 
over with boards. At the back was a large yard 
with high walls. Some, but not all, of the windows 
in the upper story had transverse slats to keep those 
within from seeing out. On the Sixth street side 
were none of these guards, and here the windows 
overlooked the potter’s field, which now we call Wash- 
ington Square. 

As I managed, with some rough help, to get up the 
steps, a few early risen people paused to look on. 
Others came from the tumble-down houses on the 
north side of Walnut street, but again I was unfortu- 
nate, and saw none I knew. 

My heart fell within me as I looked up at the gray 
stone walls and grated windows. The door soon 
closed behind a hundred of us, not a few being of 
the less severely wounded. Often in passing I had 
thought, with a boy’s horror, of this gloomy place, 
and tried to imagine how I should feel in such a 
cage. I was to learn full well. 

With fifteen others, I was shut up in a room about 
twenty-two feet square, on the Sixth street side and 
in the second story. I was, but for a Virginia 
captain, the only wounded man among these, the 
rest being stout country fellows, ruddy and strong, 
except one lean little man, a clerk, as I learned later, 
and of the commissary department. 

As I had again refused to walk upstairs, I was 
carried, and not rudely laid down by two soldiers in 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 317 


a corner of the bare room, now to be for many a 
day our prison. The rest sat down here and there 
in dull silence, now and then looking at the door 
as if there hope was to be expected to enter. I 
called the Virginia captain, after an hour had gone 
by, and asked him to lift and ease my hurt leg. 
He was quick to help, and tender. In a few min- 
utes we came to know each other, and thus began 
a friendly relation which has endured to this present 
time. 

For a day or two soldiers were employed as turn- 
keys, but then a lot of rough fellows took their 
places, and we began to feel the change. I may say 
the like of our food. For a week it was better than 
our pot-luck in camp. We had rye bread, tea with- 
out sugar, and horribly tough beef • but within two 
weeks the ration fell to bread and water, with now 
and then salt or fresh beef, and potatoes or beans, 
but neither rum nor tea. A surgeon dressed my 
wounds for a month, and then I saw him no more. 
He was a surly fellow, and would do for me nothing 
else, and was usually half intoxicated. The arm was 
soon well, but the leg wound got full of maggots 
when it was no longer cared for, and only when, in 
January, I pulled out a bit of bone did it heal. 

Once a day, sometimes in the morning, more often 
in the afternoon, we were let out in the yard for an 
hour, watched by sentries, and these also we heard 
outside under our windows. Observing how quickly 
the big country louts lost flesh and colour, I set my- 
self to seeing how I could keep my health. I talked 


318 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


with my unlucky fellow-prisoners, ate the food even 
when it was as vile as it soon became, and when in 
the yard walked up and down making acquaintances 
as soon as I was able, while most of the rest sat 
about moping. I felt sure that before long some one 
would hear of me and bring relief. None came. 

The scoundrel in charge was a Captain Cunning- 
ham. Pie had risen from the ranks. A great, florid, 
burly, drunken brute, not less than sixty years old. 
This fellow no doubt sold our rations, for in Decem- 
ber we once passed three days on rye bread and 
water, and of the former not much j one day we had 
110 food. 

He kicked and beat his victims at times when 
drunk, and when I proposed to him to make ten 
pounds by letting my aunt know where I was, he 
struck me with a heavy iron key he carried, and cut 
open my head, as a great scar testifies to this day. 

In late December the cold became intense, and we 
were given a blanket apiece to cover us as we lay 
on the straw. We suffered the more from weather 
because it chanced that, in October, the frigate 
“ Augusta ” blew up in the harbour, and broke half 
the panes of glass. In December the snow came in 
on us, and was at times thick on the floor. Once or 
twice a week we had a little fire- wood, and contrived 
then to cook the beans, which were rarely brought 
us more than half boiled. 

We did our best, the captain and I, to encourage our 
more unhappy companions, who, I think, felt more 
than we the horrors of this prisoned life. We told 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 319 


stories, got up games, and I induced the men to go 
a-fishing, as we called it; that is, to let down their 
ragged hats through the broken window-panes by 
cords torn from the edges of our blankets. Now and 
then the poor folks near by filled these nets with stale 
bread or potatoes ; but one day, after long ill luck, 
a hat was of a sudden felt to be heavy, and was 
declared a mighty catch, and hauled up with care. 
When it was found to be full of stones, a strange 
misery appeared on the faces of these eager, half- 
starved wretches. The little clerk said, “We asked 
bread, and they gave us a stone,” and of a sudden, 
broke out into hideous exuberance of blasphemy, 
like one in a minute distraught. It was believed 
Cunningham had been he who was guilty of this 
cruel jest j but as to this I have 110 assurance. Our 
efforts to cultivate patience, and even gay endurance, 
by degrees gave way, as we became feeble in body, 
and the men too hungry to be comforted by a joke. 
At last the men ceased to laugh or smile, or even 
to talk, and sat in corners close to one another for 
the saving of body warmth, silent and inert. 

A stout butcher, of the Maryland line, went mad, 
and swore roundly he was George the king. It was 
hard, indeed, to resist the sense of despair which 
seemed at last to possess all alike ; for to starvation 
and cold were added such filth and vileness as men 
of decent habits felt more than those accustomed 
to be careless as to cleanliness. 

The Virginian, one Richard Delaney, soon got over 
a slight hurt he had, and but for him I should not 


320 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


be alive to-daj^. The place swarmed with rats, and 
he and I set to work capturing them, filling their 
holes as they came out at evening, and chasing them 
until we caught them. They kept well in the intense 
cold, and when we were given fire- wood, we cooked 
and ate them greedily. 

Meanwhile death was busy among the starving 
hundreds thus huddled together. We saw every day 
hasty burials in the potter’s field. I wrote twice, 
with charred wood, on the half of a handker- 
chief, and threw it out of the window, but no good 
came of this; I suppose the sentries were too vigi- 
lant. 

A turnkey took one of my guineas, promising to 
let my aunt hear of me. I saw him no more. As 
to Cunningham, he was either too drunk to care, or 
expected to make more out of our rations than by a 
bribe, and probably did not credit the wild promises 
of a ragged prisoner. At all events, no good came 
of our many efforts and devices, which were more 
numerous than I have patience to relate. From the 
beginning my mind was full of schemes for escaping, 
and these I confided to Delaney. They served, at 
least, to keep hope fat, as he said. 

Early in December I began to have dysentery, and 
could eat no more, or rarely ; but for Delaney I should 
have died. He told me, about this time, that the men 
meant to kill Cunningham and make a mad effort to 
overcome the guard and escape. It seemed to me the 
wildest folly, but they were grown quite desperate 
and resolute for something— all but the butcher, who 


■ 

Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 321 

sang obscene songs or doleful hymns, and sat dejected 
in a corner. 

The day after I saw the little commissary clerk 
talking in the yard to Cunningham, and that even- 
ing this rascal appeared with two soldiers and 
carried off four of the dozen left in our room; 
for within a week several had died of the typhus, 
which now raged among us. The next morning the 
clerk was found dead, strangled, as I believe, in the 
night, but by whom we never knew. 

I got over the dysentery more speedily than was 
common, but it was quickly followed by a burning 
fever. For how long I know not I lay on the floor 
in the straw, miserably rolling from side to side. 
The last impression I recall was of my swearing 
wildly at Delaney because he would insist on putting 
under me his own blanket. Then I lost conscious- 
ness of my pain and unrest, and knew no more for 
many days. I came to a knowledge of myself to find 
Delaney again caring for me, and was of a sudden 
aware how delicious was the milk he was pouring down 
my throat. What else Delaney did for me I know not, 
except that he found and cared for my money, and 
bribed the turnkey with part of it to bring me milk 
daily for some two weeks. But that we had hid the 
guineas for a while in the ashes of the fireplace, I should 
have lost this chance and have died ; for one day Cun- 
nin gham made us all strip, and searched us thoroughly. 

About the end of January, Delaney, seeing me 
bettered and able to sit up a little, told me this 
strange story. While I was ill and unconscious, an 

21 


322 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


officer had come to inspect the prison. Cunningham 
was very obsequious to this gentleman, and on De- 
laney's seizing the chance to complain, said it was a 
pack of lies, and how could he help the dysentery 
and typhus? All jails had them, even in England, 
which was too true. 

“ I went on,” said Delaney, “ to say that it was an 
outrage to confine officers and men together, and 
that Mr. Wynne and myself should be put on parole. 
The inspector seemed startled at this, and said/ Who V 
I had no mind to let a lie stand in your way, and I 
repeated, ‘Captain Wynne,' pointing to you, who 
were raving and wild enough. He came over and 
stood just here, looking down on you for so long that 
I thought he must be sorry for us. Then he said, in 
a queer way, and very deliberately, ‘Will he get 
well? He ought to be better looked after.' Cun- 
ningham said it was useless, because the surgeon had 
said you would be over yonder (pointing to the pot- 
ter's field) in a day or two.” Which, in fact, was his 
cheerful prediction. It was safe to say it of any who 
fell ill in the jail. 

“ This officer appeared puzzled or undecided. He 
went out and came back alone, and leaned over you, 
asking me to pull the blanket from your face. I 
did so, as he seemed afraid to touch it. You, my 
dear Wynne, were saying ‘ Dorothea ' over and over ; 
but who is Dorothea the Lord knows, or you. The 
officer, after standing a while, said, ‘ it was a pity, 
but it was of no use ; you would die.’ As for me, 
I told him that we were officers starving, and 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 323 


were entitled to better treatment. He said he would 
see to it ; and that is all. He went away, and we are 
still here ; but if ever — ” 

I broke in on Delaney’s threat with, “Who was 
the man ? ” 

“ Cunningham consigned me to a more comfortable 
climate than this when I asked him, and the turnkey 
did not know,” 

“ What did he look like ? ” said I. 

“ He was tall, very dark, and had a scar over the 
left eye.” 

“Indeed? Did he have a way of standing with 
half-shut eyes, and his mouth a little open ? ” 

“Certainly. Why, Wynne, you must know the 
man.” 

“I do— I do. He is my cousin.” 

“I congratulate you.” And so saying, he went 
away to the door to receive our rations, of which 
now every one except ourselves stole whatever he 
could lay hands on. 

It did seem to me, as I lay still, in much distress 
of body, and thought over that which I now heard 
for the first time, that no man could be so cruel as 
Arthur had shown himself. Time had gone by, and 
he had done nothing. If, as appeared likely, he was 
sure I was almost in the act of death, it seemed yet 
worse ; for how could I, a dying man, hurt any one ? 
If for any cause he feared me, here was an end of it. 
It seemed to me both stupid and villainous. He had 
warned me that I had everything to dread from his 
enmity if I persisted in writing to Darthea. As- 


324 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


suredly he had been as good as his word. He was 
unwilling to risk any worldly advantages by giving 
me a gentleman’s satisfaction, and could coldly let 
me die far from the love of those dear to me, in not 
much better state than a pig perishing in a sty. Nay ; 
the pig were better off, having known no better 
things. 

I thought much as I lay there, having been near 
to death, and therefore seriously inclined, how im- 
possible it must ever be for me to hate a man enough 
to do as Arthur had done. As the days went on, the 
hope which each week brought but hatched a new 
despair ; and still I mended day by day ; and for this 
there was a singular cause. I kept thinking of the 
hour when my cousin and I should meet ; and as I 
fed this animal appetite I won fresh desire to live, 
the motive serving as a means toward health of body. 

Concerning what had caused Arthur to lift no 
finger of help, I tried to think no more. If it were 
because of Z>arthea, why should he so fear me! I 
wished he had more reason. He must have learned 
later that I was still alive, and that I was, when he 
saw me, in no state to recognise him. It looked 
worse and worse as I thought about it, until Delaney, 
hearing me talk of nothing else, told me I would go 
mad like the butcher if I let myself dwell longer 
upon it. Thus wisely counselled, I set it aside. 

It was now the beginning of February; I was 
greatly improved, and fast gainingstrength, but had 
lost, as I guessed, nearly three stone. There were but 
six of us left, the butcher dying last on his rotten 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 325 


straw in awful anguish of terror and despair. 
Delaney and I consoled each other all this dreary 
winter, and we did all men could do for the more 
unfortunate ones, whose sicknesses and deaths made 
this hell of distress almost unbearable. 

The food was at times better, and then again, as a 
drunkard’s caprice willed, there might be none for 
a day. If we were ourselves wretched and starved, 
we were at least a source of comfort and food to 
those minor beings to whom we furnished both board 
and bed. 

I do not mean to tell over the often-heard story 
of a prison 5 what we did to while away the hours ; 
how we taxed our memories until the reading, long 
forgotten, came back in morsels, and could be put 
together for new pleasure of it. 

There was one little man who had been a broken- 
down clergyman, and had entered the army. His 
chief trouble was that he could get no rum, and of 
this he talked whenever we would listen. He had, 
like several sots I have known, a remarkable memory, 
and was thus a great resource to us, as he could re- 
peat whole plays, and a wonderful amount of the 
Bible. As it was hard to arouse him, and get him 
to use his power to recall what he had read, in an evil 
hour we bribed him with some choice bits of our 
noble rations. After this the price would rise at 
times, and he became greedy. His mind gave way 
by degrees, but he still kept his memory, being also 
more and more eager to be paid for his power to 
interest or amuse us. 


326 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


When he grew melancholy and sleepless, and 
walked about all night, it was a real addition to 
our many evils. He declared that he must soon die, 
and I heard him one night earnestly beseeching God, 
in language of great force and eloquence, to forgive 
him. In the morning he was dead, having strangled 
himself resolutely with a strip of blanket and a bro- 
ken rung of a stool, with which he had twisted the 
cord. It must have taken such obstinate courage as 
no one could have believed him to possess. He had 
no capacity to attach men, and I do not think we 
grieved for him as much as for the loss of what was 
truly a library, and not to be replaced. 

On the 3d of February I awakened with a fresh 
and happy thought in my mind. My good friend 
the late lamented Dr. Franklin, used to say that in 
sleep the mind creates thoughts for the day to hatch. 
I am rather of opinion that sleep so feeds and rests 
the brain that when first we awaken our power to 
think is at its best. At all events, on that day I 
suddenly saw a way to let the sweet outside world 
know I was alive. 

At first I used to think of a chaplain as a resource, 
but I never saw one. The surgeon came no more 
when I grew better. Being now able to move about 
a little, I had noticed in the yard at times, but only 
of late, a fat Romanist priest, who was allowed to 
bring soup or other food to certain prisoners. I soon 
learned that, because Cunningham was of the Church 
of Rome, those who were of his own faith were fa- 
voured. Indeed, now and then a part of my lessen- 




Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 327 


ing guineas obtained from these men a share of the 
supplies which the priest, and, I may add, certain 
gray-clad sisters, also brought ; but this was rare. 

That day in the yard I drew near to the priest, 
but saw Cunningham looking on, and so I waited 
with the patience of a prisoned man. It was quite 
two weeks before my chance came. The yard being 
small, was literally full of half-clad, whole-starved 
men, who shivered and huddled together where the 
sunlight fell. Many reeled with weakness ; most were 
thin past belief, their drawn skin the colour of a de- 
cayed lemon. From this sad crowd came a strange 
odour, like to cheese, and yet not like that. Even to 
remember it is most horrible. Passing near to a stout 
old Sister of Charity, I said quietly : 

“I have friends who would help me. For God’s 
love, see Miss Wynne in Arch street, across from the 
Meeting.” 

u I will do your errand,” she said. 

11 Others have said so, sister, and have lied to me.” 

“ I will do it,” she said. “ And if she is away ? ” 

I thought of my father. He seemed my natural 
resource, but my cousin would be there. A final 
hope there was. I was foolish enough to say, “If 
she is not in town, then Miss Darthea Peniston, near 
by. If you fail me, I shall curse you while I live.” 

“ I will not fail you. Why should you poor pris- 
oners be so ill used ? Trust me.” 

I turned away satisfied, remembering that when 
I left Darthea was about to return. If she came to 
know, that would be enough. I had faith in her 


328 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


friendship and in her ; and— if ever I saw her again 
—should I tell her what now I knew of Arthur 
Wynne ? I learned many lessons in this awful place, 
and among them caution. I would wait and see. 

Both Delaney and I strongly desired an exchange, 
and not merely a parole. We imagined exchanges 
to be frequent. My own dilemma, Delaney pointed 
out, was that I was not of the army, although I had 
been in it. And so we speculated of things not yet 
come about, and what we would do when they did 
come. # 

The next day went by, and the morning after, it 
being now February 19, we were all in the yard. A 
turnkey came and bade me follow him. I went, as 
you may imagine, with an eager heart, on the way, 
as I hoped, out of this death in life. As I questioned 
the man, he said there was an order for a lady to 
see me. 

Now at this time my hair was a foot long, and no 
way to shear it. We had taken the blankets of the 
dead, and made us coats by tearing holes through 
which to thrust our arms. Then, as we lacked for 
buttons, or string for points, we could do no more 
than wrap these strange gowns about us so as to 
cover our rags. 

My costume troubled me little. I went to the foul- 
smelling room, now empty, and waited until the man 
came back. As he opened the door, I saw the good 
Sister of Charity in the hall, and then— who but Dar- 
thea ? She was in a long cloak and great muff, and 
held in her hand a winter mask. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 329 


Seeing me in this bine blanket, all nnshorn, and 
with what beard I had covering my face, when all 
men but Hessians shaved clean, I wonder not, I say, 
that, seeing this gaunt scarecrow, she fell back, say- 
ing there was some mistake. 

I cried out, “ Darthea ! Darthea ! Do not leave 
me. It is I ! It is I, Hugh Wynne.” 

“ My God ! ” she cried, “ it is Hugh ! It is ! it is ! ” 
At this she caught my lean yellow hand, and went 
on to say, “ Why were we never told ? Your Aunt 
Wynne is away. Since we thought you dead, she has 
ordered mourning, and is gone to her farm, and leaves 
the servants to feed those quartered on her. But you 
are not dead, thank God ! thank God j I was but 
a day come from New York, and was at home when 
the dear old sister came and told me. I made her 
sit down while I called my aunt. Then Arthur came, 
and I told him. He was greatly shocked to hear it. 
He reminded me that some while before he had 
told me that he had seen a man who looked like you in 
the jail, and was about to die ; and now could it— could 
it have been you ? He is for duty at the forts to-day, 
but to-morrow he will get you a parole. He supposed 
a day made no matter ; at all events, he must delay 
that long. I never saw him so troubled.” 

“Well he might be,” thought I. I merely said, 
“ Indeed ? ” But I must have looked my doubt, for 
she added quickly : 

“Who could know you, Mr. Wynne?” 

I stood all this while clutching at my blanket to 
cover my filth and rags, and she, young and tender. 


330 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

now all tears, now flashing a smile in between, like 
the pretty lightning of this storm of gentle pity. 

“ And what fetched you here to this awful place ? ” 
I said. “ God knows how welcome you are, but—” 

“Oh,” she cried, “when Arthur went, I said I 
would wait, but I could not. My aunt was in a rage, 
but I would go with the dear sister ; and then I found 
Sir William, and Mr. Montresor was there ; and you 
will be helped, and an end put to this wickedness. 
But the parole Arthur will ask for— that is better.” 

“ Darthea,” I said hoarsely, my voice breaking, “ I 
have been here since early in October. I have been 
starved, frozen, maltreated a hundred ways, but I can 
never take a parole. My friend Delaney and I are 
agreed on this. As to exchanges, I have no rank, 
and I may be a year inactive. I will take my chance 
here.” I think death had been preferable to a parole 
obtained for me by Arthur Wynne. No ; I was not 
made of my father-rock to do this and then to want 
to kill the man. I could not do that. I put it on 
the parole. Delaney and I had agreed, and on this 
I stood firm. 

She implored me to change my mind. “ How ob- 
stinate you are ! ” she cried. “ Do you never change ? 
Oh, you are dreadfully changed ! Do not die ; you 
must not.” She was strange in her excitement. 

Then I thought to ask to have Delaney in, and 
to bid him tell that vile and wicked story; but it 
seemed no place nor time to hurt her who had so 
helped me, daring to do what few young women had 
ever dared even to think of. As I hesitated, I was 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 331 


struck with a thought which was like a physical pain. 
It put myself and the other wretched business quite 
out of my head. 

“ 0 Darthea ! " I cried, “ you should never have 
come here. Go at once. Do not stay a minute. This 
is a house poisoned. Seven died of fever in this room. 
Write me what else is to say, but go ; and let me have 
some plain clothes from home, and linen and a razor 
and scissors and, above all,” and I smiled, “soap. 
But go ! go ! Why were you let to come f " 

“ I will go when I have done. Why did I come ? 
Because I am your friend, and this is the way I read 
friendship. Oh, I shall hear of it too. But let him 
take care ; I would do it again. And as to the parole, 
he shall get it for you to-morrow, if you like it or not. 
I will write to you, and the rest you shall have ; and 
now good-by. I am to be at home for Mr. Montre- 
sor in a half-hour. This is but a bit of payment for 
the ugly little girl, who is very honest, sir, I do as- 
sure you." 

“Do go," I cried. “And, oh, Darthea, if this is 
your friendship, what would be your love ! " 

“ Fie ! fie ! Hush ! " she said, and was gone. 

In two hours came a note, and I learned, for I had 
asked to hear of the war, that Washington was not 
dead. We had been told that he was. I heard, too, 
of Burgoyne’s surrender, news now near to five 
months old, of Count Donop’s defeat and death, of 
the fall of our forts on the Delaware, of Lord Corn- 
wallis gone to England, of failures to effect exchanges. 
Then she went on to write : “ Your father was, strange 


*33 2 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


to say, roused out of a sort of lethargy by the news 
of your death. Jack managed to get a letter to your 
aunt to say you were missing, and Arthur had search 
made for you $ but many nameless ones were buried 
in haste, and he could not find your name on the lists 
of prisoners.” N one had been made to my knowledge. 
“We all thought you dead. Your aunt is in mourn- 
ing, but only of late, thinking it could not be that 
you were lost to her. It is well, as you do not like 
your cousin, that you should know how kind he has 
been, and what a comfort to your father. Indeed,— 
and now it will amuse you,— he told Arthur, you 
being dead, he had still a son, and would consider 
Arthur as his heir. All this ought to make you think 
better of Arthur, whom, I do believe, you have no 
reason to dislike. I beg of you to think otherwise 
of him ; my friends must be his. And have I not 
proved I am a friend ? I fear I cannot at once get 
news of you to Mistress Wynne, who has gone to 
live at the Hill Farm.” And so, with other kind 
words, she ended, and I, putting the note in a safe 
place, sat on my straw, and laughed to think of Ar- 
thur’s filial care and present disappointment. 

In a few hours came the turnkey, quite captured 
by Darthea, and no doubt the richer for a good fee. 
He fetched a portmantle just come, and an order to 
put me in a room alone. I left Delaney with sorrow, 
but hoped for some way to help him. In an hour I 
was clean for the first time in five months, neatly 
shaven, my hair somehow cut, and I in sweet linen 
and a good, plain gray suit, and a beaver to match. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 333 


Then I sat down to think, the mere hope of escape 
making me weak, and what came of it you shall hear. 

The next day I was ordered forth with a few 
others, and, luckily, late in the afternoon. I covered 
my fine clothes with the blanket and went out. In 
the yard, just before our time was up, I saw the sis- 
ter, to my delight, and perceived too, with joy, that 
the prisoners did not recognise me, decently shaven 
as I was. Only one thing held me back or made me 
doubt that I was now close to liberty : I was so feeble 
that at times I staggered in walking. I knew, how- 
ever, that when my new clothes became familiar in 
the jail my chance of escape would be over. I must 
take the present opportunity, and trust to luck. 

My scheme I had clearly thought out. I meant, 
when in the yard, to drop the blanket cover, and 
coolly follow the sister, trusting to my being taken, 
in my new garments, for a visitor. It was simple, 
and like enough to succeed if my strength held out. 
It was dusk, and a dark, overclouded day. A bell 
was rung, this being the signal for the gang of 
prisoners to go to their rooms. Falling back a little, 
I cast aside the blanket, and then following the rest, 
was at once in the hall, dimly lit with lanterns. It 
was some eighty feet long. Here I kept behind the 
group, and went boldly after the stout sister. No one 
seemed disposed to suspect the well-dressed gentle- 
man in gray. I went by the turnkey, keeping my 
face the other way. I was some fifteen feet from 
the great barred outer door. The two sentries 
stepped back to let the sister go by. Meanwhile the 


334 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

gate-keeper, with his back to me, was busy with his 
keys. He unlocked the door and pulled it open. A 
greater lantern hung over it. I was aghast to see 
the wretch, Cunningham, just about to enter. He 
was sure to detect me. I hesitated, but the lookout 
into space and liberty was enough for me. The beast 
fell back to let the sister pass out. I dashed by the 
guards, upset the good woman, and, just outside of 
the doorway, struck Cunningham in the face— a blow 
that had in it all the gathered hate of five months of 
brutal treatment. He fell back, stumbling on the 
broad upper step. I caught him a second full in the 
neck, as I followed. With an oath, he rolled back 
down the high steps, as I, leaping over him, ran 
across Walnut street. One of the outside guards 
fired wildly, but might as well have killed some 
passer-by as me. \ 

Opposite were the low houses afterward removed 
to enlarge Independence Square. I darted through 
the open door of a cobbler’s shop, and out at the back 
into a small yard, and over palings into the open 
space. It was quite dark, as the day was overcast. 
I ran behind the houses to Fifth street. Here I 
jumped down the raised bank and turned northward. 

Beside me was a mechanic going home with his 
lantern, which, by military law, all had to carry after 
fall of night. He looked at me as if in doubt, and 
I took my chance, saying, “ Take no notice. I am 
a prisoner run away from the jail.” 

u I ’m your man,” he said. “ Take the lantern, and 
walk with me. I hear those devils.” And indeed 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 335 


there was a great noise on Walnut street and in the 
square. Men were dimly seen running to and fro, 
and seizing any who had no lanterns. 

We went on to Chestnut street, and down to Sec- 
ond. I asked him here to go to Dock Creek with me. 

At my own home I offered him my last guinea, but 
he said No. I then told him my name, and desired 
he would some day, in better times, seek me out. 
And so the honest fellow left me. Many a year after 
he did come to me in debt and trouble, and, you may 
be sure, was set at ease for the rest of his life. 

Looking up, I saw light in the window, and within I 
could see Arthur and three other officers. The liquors 
and decanters were on a table, with bread and cheese, 
plain to be seen by hungry eyes. My father’s bulky 
form was in his big Penn arm-chair, his head fallen 
forward. He was sound asleep. Colonel Tarleton had 
his feet on a low stool my mother used for her bas- 
ket of sewing material and the stockings she was so 
constantly darning. Harcourt and Colonel O’Hara 
were matching pennies, and my cousin was standing 
by the fire, speaking now and then, a glass in his 
hand. 

The dog asleep in the stable was no more considered 
than was my poor father by these insolent guests. 
An almost overmastering rage possessed me as I 
gazed through the panes ; for no one had closed the 
shutters as was usually done at nightfall. I was 
hungry, cold, and weak, and these— ! I turned 
away, and went down the bank of Dock Creek to 
the boat-house. It was locked, and this nx*!* it likely 


336 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


my boat had escaped the strict search made by the 
British. No one being in sight, I went around the 
house to the stable at the farther end of the garden. 
As I came near I smelc the smoke of our old Tom’s 
pipe, and then seeing him, I called softly, “Tom! 
Tom ! ” 

He jumped up, crying, “ Save us, Master Hugh ! ” 
and started to run. In a moment I had him by 
the arm, and quickly made him understand that I 
was alive, and needed food and help. As soon as 
he was recovered from his fright, he fetched me 
milk, bread, and a bottle of Hollands. After a 
greedy meal, he carried to the boat, at my order, 
the rest of the pint of spirits, oars, paddle, and 
boat-key. On the way it occurred to me to ask for 
Lucy. She had been seized by the Hessian, Yon 
Heiser, and was in my aunt’s stable. I had not 
asked about the mare without a purpose ; I was in 
a state of intense mental clearness, with all my 
wits in order. In the few minutes that followed I 
told Tom not to let any one know of my coming, 
and then, pushing off, I dropped quietly down the 
creek. 

It was cold and very dark, and there was some ice 
afloat in small masses, amidst which my boat, turning 
with no guidance, moved on the full of the ebb tide 
toward the great river. For about two hundred 
yards I drifted, lying flat on my back. At the outlet 
of the creek was a sudden turn where the current 
almost fetched me ashore on the south bank. There 
from the slip nearly overhead, as the boat whirled 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 337 


around, I heard a sentinel call out, “ Stop there, or 
I fire ! ” I remained motionless, feeling sure that he 
would not risk an alarm by reason of a skiff gone 
adrift. As he called again the boat slewed around, 
and shot, stern first, far out into the great flood of 
the Delaware. Never had it seemed to me a dearer 
friend. I was free. Cautiously using the paddle 
without rising, I was soon in mid-river. Then I sat 
up, and, taking a great drink of the gin, I rowed up- 
stream in the darkness, finding less ice than I had 
thought probable. 

My plan now was to pull up to Burlington or 
Bristol 5 but I soon found the ice in greater masses, 
and I began to be puzzled. I turned toward Jersey, 
and hither and thither, and in a few minutes came 
upon fields of moving ice. It was clear that I must 
land in the city, and take my chance of getting past 
the line of sentries. I pulled cautiously in at Arch 
street, and saw a sloop lying at a slip. Lying down, I 
used the paddle until at her side. Hearing no sound, 

I climbed up over her low rail, and made fast the 
boat. I could see that no one was on deck. A lighted 
lantern hung from a rope near the bow. I took it ^ 
down, and boldly stepped on the slip. A sentry, 
seeing me come, said, u A cold night, captain.” 

“ Very,” I rejoined, and went on up the slope. Chance 
had favoured me. In a few minutes I saw my aunt’s 
house, shut up, but with a light over the transom of 
the hall door. I passed on, went up to Third street, 
around to the back of the premises, and over the 
palings into the long garden behind the dwelling, 

52 


338 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


As I stood reflecting I heard Lucy neigh, and no 
voice of friend could have been sweeter. I smiled 
to think that I was a man in the position of a thief, 
but with a right to take whatsoever I might need. 
I began to suspect, too, that no one was in the house. 
Moving toward it with care, I found all the back 
doors open, or at least not fastened. A fire burned 
on the kitchen hearth, and, first making sure of the 
absence of the servants, I shot the bolt of the hall door, 
fastened the pin-bolts of the windows which looked 
on the front street, and went back to the kitchen with 
one overruling desire to be well warmed. I had been 
cold for four months. Making a roaring fire, I 
roasted myself for half an hour, turning like a duck 
on a spit. Heat and good bread and coffee I craved 
most. I found here enough of all, but no liquors ; 
the gin I had finished, a good pint, and never felt it. 
Still feeling my weakness, and aware that I needed 
all my strength, I stayed yet a minute, deep in 
thought, and reluctant to leave the comfort of the 
hearth. At last I took a lantern and went upstairs. 
The china gods and beasts were all put away, the 
silver tankards and plate removed, the rugs gone. 
My good Whig aunt had done her best to make her 
despotic boarders no more comfortable than she 
could help. All was neglect, dust, and dirt ; pipes 
and empty bottles lay about, and a smell of stale to- 
bacco smoke was in the air. Poor Aunt Gain or ! 

Upstairs the general had moved into the room 
sacred to her spinster slumbers. The servants had 
taken holiday, it seemed, and the officers appeared 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 339 

to have been indifferent, or absent all day j for this 
room was in a vile condition, with even the bed not 
yet made up, and the curtains torn. In this and the 
front chamber, used commonly as my aunt’s own 
sitting-room, was a strange litter of maps, papers, 
and equipments, two swords, a brace of inlaid pistols, 
brass-plated, two Hessian hats, the trappings of a 
Brunswick chasseur, and a long military cloak with 
a gold-braided regimental number under a large 
crown on each shoulder. A sense of amusement stole 
over me, although I was so tired I could have fallen 
with fatigue. I was feeling my weakness, and suffer- 
ing from what even to a man in health would have been 
great exertion. A full flask of rum lay on the table ; 
I put it in my pocket, leaving the silver cover. Next 
I put on the long cloak, a tall Anhalter helmet, and 
a straight, gold-mounted sword. The pistols I took 
also, loading and priming them, and leaving only 
the box where they had lain. 

It was now almost ten, and I could not hope to 
be long left in easy possession. Then I turned 
to the table. Much of the confused mass of papers 
was in German. I put in my pocket a beauti- 
fully drawn map of our own lines at Valley Forge. 
I gave it to Alexander Hamilton soon after the 
war. 

A small, pipe— I think the Germans call meer- 
schaum— I could not despise, nor a great bundle of 
tobacco, which I thrust into the inside pouch of the 
cloak. 

Last I saw a sealed letter to Lieutenant-Colonel 


340 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


E^nst Ludwig Wilhelm von Specht, also one to Colo- 
nel Montresor. These were much to my purpose. 
Finally, as I heard the great clock on the stairway 
strike ten, I scribbled on a sheet of paper under Von 
Knyphausen’s arms, “ Captain Allan McLane presents 
his compliments to General von Knypliausen, and 
hopes he will do Captain McLane the honour to re- 
turn his visit.— February 20, 1778, 10 p. M.” 

I laughed as I went downstairs, in that mood of 
merriment which was my one sign of excitement at 
the near approach of peril. A pause at the grateful 
fire, and a moment later I was saddling Lucy, look- 
ing well to girth and bit, and last buckling on the 
spurs of a Hessian officer. 

In a few minutes I was trotting up Fifth street. 
I knew only that the too extended lines had been 
drawn in close to the city, after the sharp lesson at 
Germantown ; but I did not know how complete were 
the forts and abatis crossing from the Delaware to 
the Schuylkill, to the north of Callowhill street. I 
meant to pass the lines somewhere, trusting to the 
legs of Lucy, who well understood the change of 
riders, and seemed in excellent condition. 

I turned off into the fields to the westward at 
Vine street, riding carefully ; and soon, as I moved 
to north, saw that fences, fruit-trees, and the scat- 
tered remnant of the wood were gone. Stumbling 
through mud and over stumps, I began to see before 
me one of Montresor’s blockhouses, and presently, for 
now the night was far too clear, the forms of sentries on 
top. Dismounting, I moved aside a hundred yards, so 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 341 


that I passed unseen between two of these forts. But 
a good piece to the north of them I came on a strong 
stockade, and saw beyond it a hazy mass of what I 
took to be a monster tangle of dead trees, well fitted 
to delay a storming-party. Then I remembered my 
ride with Montresor- I was caught. I stood still in 
the night, wondering what to do : behind me the hum 
and glow of the city, before me freedom and dark- 
ness. 

A man thinks quickly in an hour like that. I 
mounted, feeling the lift of my weak body an exer- 
tion, and rode back into Vine, and so to Front street. 
A hundred yards before me was a great camp-fire, 
to left of where the road to Germantown diverges. 
I saw figures about it passing to and fro. I felt 
for my pistols in the holsters of the saddle, and 
cocked the one on my right, loosened the long 
straight Hessian blade, and took the two letters in 
my bridle-hand. 

As I rode up I saw, for the fire was brightly blazing, 
that there were tents, pickets to left and right, men 
afoot, and horses not saddled. A sergeant came out 
into the road. “ Halt ! ” he cried. In broken Eng- 
lish, I said I had a letter for Colonel Montresor, to 
be given in the morning when he would be out to 
inspect the lines, and one for Lieutenant-Colonel von 
Specht. The man took the letters. I meant to turn 
back, wheel, and go by at speed ; but by evil luck a 
wind from the north blew open my cloak, and in the 
brilliant firelight he saw my gray clothes. 

fi Holloa! ;; he cried. a What ? s the word? You 


342 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

are not in uniform. Get off ! ” So saying, he caught 
the rein he had dropped, a man or two running to- 
ward us as he spoke. 

If I could, I would have spared the man : but it 
was his life or mine j I knew that. I fired square at 
his chest, the mare reared, the man fell with a cry. 
I let Lucy have both spurs. She leaped as a deer 
leaps, catching a fellow in the chest with her shoulder, 
and was off like a crazy thing. I looked ahead ; the 
way was clear. A glance back showed me the road 
full of men. I heard shouts, orders, shot after shot. 
I was soon far beyond danger, and going at racing 
speed through the night ; but I had scared up a plea- 
sant hornets’ nest. The last picket was a quarter of 
a mile ahead, perhaps. I pulled up, and with diffi- 
culty made the mare walk. There were fires on both 
sides, and a lot of alert soldiers out in the road. I 
turned off into the fields behind a farm-house, glad 
of the absence of fences. The next moment I felt 
the mare gather herself with the half -pause every 
horseman knows so well. She had taken a ditch, 
and prettily too. 

Keeping off the highway, but in line with it, I 
went on slowly, leaning over in the saddle. After 
a mile, and much stumbling about, I ceased to hear 
noises back of me, and turned, approaching the road 
I had left. No one was in sight. Why I was not 
followed by the horse I know not. I wrapped my 
cloak about me, and rode on up the deserted high- 
way. I was free, and on neutral ground. All I had 
to fear was an encounter with one of the foraging 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 343 

parties which kept the country around in constant 
terror. I met no one. The sole unpleasant thought 
which haunted my cold night ride was the face of 
the poor devil I had shot. I put it aside. Prison 
life had at least taught me the habit of dismissing 
the torment of vain reflection on an irreparable past. 

I went by the old burying-ground of Germantown, 
and the rare houses, going slowly on account of the 
road, which was full of deep holes, and so through 
the market-place where we made our last charge. 

At last I breasted the slippery rise of Chestnut 
Hill, and throwing my cloak over the mare, that I 
had taught to stand, went up to the door of my Aunt 
GainoPs house. 

I knocked long before I was heard. A window 
was opened above me, and a voice I loved called out 
to know what I wanted. I replied, “It is I, Hugh. 
Be quick ! ” A moment later I was in her dear old 
arms, the servants were called up, and my faithful 
Lucy was cared for. Then I fell on a settle, at the 
limit of my strength. I was put to bed, and glad I 
was to stay there for two days, and not even talk. 
Indeed, what with good diet and milk and spirits and 
clean sheets, I slept as I had not done for many a 
night. 

As soon as I was up and fit to converse, I was 
made to tell my story over and over. Meanwhile 
my aunt was desperately afraid lest we should be 
visited, as was not rare, by foragers or Tory par- 
tisans. I must go, and at once. Even war was to 
be preferred to this anxiety. But before I went she 


344 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


must tell me what she thought of this strange busi- 
ness of my cousin. I had been wise not to tell 
Darthea. A rascal like Arthur would trip himself 
up soon or late. Then she fell to thinking, and, 
bidding me cease for a little, sat with her head in her 
large hands, having her elbows on the table. 

“Hugh,” she said at last, “he must have more 
cause to be jealous than we know. He has still more 
now. Is it only the woman? Can it be anything 
about the estate in Wales ? It must be ; you remem- 
ber how he lied to us about it ; but what is it ? ” 

“ He thinks I regret the loss of Wyncote, and that 
I would like to have it. I am afraid I found it plea- 
sant to say so, seeing that it annoyed him.” 

“ I wish he may have some such cause to hate you, 
and no other. But why? Your grandfather made 
a legal conveyance of an unentailed property, got 
some ready money,— how much I never knew,— and 
came away. How can you interfere with Arthur? 
The Wynnes, I have heard, have Welsh memories 
for an insult. You struck him once.” 

“ The blow ! ” and I smiled. “ Yes ; the woman ! 
Pray God it be that. The estate— he is welcome to 
it. I hardly think a Welsh home would bribe me to 
leave my own country. But I do not see, aunt, why 
you so often talk as if Wyncote were ours, and stolen 
from us. I do not want it, and why should I ? ” 

“ Is not that unreasonable, Hugh ? ” she returned, 
with more quietness in the way of reply than was 
usual when she was arguing. “ You are young now. 
The anger between England and ourselves makes all 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 345 


things in Great Britain seem hateful to yon, to me, 
to all honest colonials ; but this will not last. Peace 
will come one day or another, and when it does, to 
be Wynne of Wyncote— ” 

“Good gracious, Aunt Gainor! let us set this 
aside. Arthur Wynne’s lies have stirred us all to 
think there must be some reason for such a keen de- 
sire to mislead me, you, and my father— above all, 
my father. But it is my father’s business, not mine ; 
nor, if I may be excused, is it yours.” 

“That is true, or would be if your father were 
well or interested. He is neither— neither ; and there 
is something in the matter. I shall ask my brother.” 

“You have done that before.” 

“ I have, but I got nothing. Now he is in such a 
state that he may be more free of speech. I think 
he could be got to tell me what neither he nor my 
own father liked to speak of.” 

Upon this, I told my aunt that I did trust she 
would not take advantage of my father’s weak mind 
to get that which, when of wholesome wits, he had 
seen fit to conceal. I did not like it. 

“ Nonsense ! ” she cried, “ nonsense ! if you could 
have the old home—” 

“ But how can I ? It is like promising fairy gold, 
and I don’t want it. I should like to go there once 
and see it and my cousins, and come home to this 
country.” 

I was, in fact, veary of the thing, and my aunt 
would have talked it over all day. She could not 
see why I was so set in my mind. She kept urging 


346 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


that something would turn up about it, and we should 
have to act ; then I would change my mind. I hardly 
knew why that which once had been a delightful and 
mysterious bait now lured me not at all. What with 
the great war, and my own maturity, and Darthea, 
Wyncote had shrunken out of the world of my de- 
sires. It was too dreamy a bribe for one of my turn 
of mind. I would have given half Wales for an hour 
alone with Arthur Wynne. 

Then through my meditations I heard, “ W ell, mark 
my word, Master Absolute; there is some flaw in 
their title, and— and soon or late—” 

“ Oh, please, aunt—” 

“Well, do not make up your mind. I am afraid 
of you when you make up your mind. You are as 
set in your ways as your father. Do you remember 
what Nicholas Wain said of him: ‘When John 
Wynne puts down his foot, thou hast got to dig it 
up to move him ’ ? ” 

She was right ; nor did I defend myself. I laughed, 
but was sad too, thinking of my poor old father, 
whom I could not see, and of how far he was now 
from being what his friend had described. 

I said as much. My aunt replied, “ Yes, it is too 
true ; but I think he is less unhappy, and so thinks 
Dr. Rush.” 

After this our talk drifted away, and my aunt 
would once more hear of my note in McLane’s name 
left for the Hessian general. “ I hope yet to ask him 
of it,” she cried, “and that dear Mr. Andre— I can 
see his face. It is the French blood makes him so 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 347 

gentle. Catch, him for me in the war. I should like 
to have him on parole for a sixmonth.” And at this 
she laughed, and heartily, as she did most things. 

When this talk occurred we were in a great front 
room in the second story. There was a deep bow- 
window to westward, and here my aunt liked to be 
at set of sun, and to look over what seemed to be a 
boundless forest j for the many scattered farms were 
hid away in their woodland shelters, so that from 
this vantage of height it looked as though the coun- 
try beyond might be one great solitude. Nearer 
were well-tilled farms, on which the snow still lay in 
melting drifts. 

As we sat, I was smoking the first tobacco I had 
had since I left the jail. This habit I learned long 
before, and after once falling a captive to that con- 
soler and counsellor, the pipe, I never gave it up. It 
is like others of the good gifts of God : when abused 
it loses its use, which seems a silly phrase, but does 
really mean more than it says. Jack hath somewhere 
writ that words have souls, and are always more than 
they look or say. I could wish mine to be so taken. 
And as to tobacco and good rum, Jack said— but I 
forget what it was— something neat and pretty and 
honest, that took a good grip of you. The tricks an 
old fellow’s memory plays him are queer enough. I 
often recall the time and place of something clever 
a friend hath said long ago, but when I try to get it 
back, I have but a sense of its pleasantness, as of a 
flavour left in the mouth, while all the wise words 
of his saying are quite forgot. Dr. Rush thinks that 


348 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


we are often happy or morose without apparent cause, 
when the mind is but recalling the influence of some 
former joy or grief, but not that which created either. 
The great doctor had many hard sayings, and this 
was one. 

As I sat reflecting, I felt a sudden consciousness 
of the pleasure my tobacco gave, and then of how 
delightful it was to be, as it were, growing younger 
day by day, and of how, with return of strength, 
came a certain keenness of the senses as to odours, 
and as to what I ate or drank. It seemed to me a 
kind of reward for suffering endured with patience. 

My Aunt Gainor sat watching me with the pleasure 
good women have over one too weak to resist being 
coddled. When I had come to this happy condition 
of wanting a pipe, as I had jolted out of my pouch 
the tobacco I stole, she went off and brought the good 
weed out of the barn, where she had saved her last 
crop under what scant hay the Hessian foragers 
left her. I must smoke in her own library, a thing 
unheard of before; she loved to smell a good to- 
bacco. 

u O Aunt Gainor ! ” 

“ But Jack ! ” she said. She did not like to see 
Jack with a pipe. He looked too like a sweet girl, 
with his fair skin and his yellow hair. 

I smoked on in mighty peace of mind, and soon 
she began again, being rarely long silent, “ I hope 
you and your cousin will never meet, Hugh.” 

The suddenness of this overcame me, and I felt 
myself flush. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 349 


“ Ah ! ” she said, “ I knew it. There is little love 
lost between you.” 

“ There are things a man cannot forgive.” 

“ Then may the good God keep you apart, my son.” 

“I trust not,” said I. “I can forgive an insult,, 
even if I am Welsh and a Wynne ; but oh, Aunt Gai- 
nor, those added weeks of misery, foulness, filth, and 
pain 1 owe to this man ! I will kill him as I would 
kill any other vermin.” Then I was ashamed, for ta 
say such things before women was not my way. 

“ I could kill him myself,” said my aunt, savagely, 
“And now do have some more of this nice, good 
gruel,” which set me to laughing. 

“ Let him go,” said I, “ and the gruel too.” 

“And that is what you must do, sir. You must 
go. I am all day in terror.” 

And still I stayed on, pretty easy in mind ; for my 
aunt had set a fellow on watch at Mount Airy, to let, 
us know if any parties appeared, and we kept Lucy 
saddled. I sorely needed this rest and to be fed ; for 
I was a mere shadow of my big self when I alighted 
at her door on that memorable 20th of February. 

The day before I left this delightful haven between 
jail and camp, came one of my aunt’s women slaves 
with a letter she had brought from the city, and this 
was what it said : 

“ Dear Mistress Wynne : At last I am honoured: 
with the permission to write and tell you that Mr. 
Hugh Wynne is alive. It was cruel that the general 
would not earlier grant me so small a favour as to 


350 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


pass an open letter; bnt Arthur found much diffi- 
culty, by reason, I fear, of your well-known opinions. 
He was on the way to the jail when he heard of Mr. 
Hugh Wynne’s having escaped, after dreadfully in- 
juring the poor man who took such good care of him 
all winter. How it came that he lay five months in 
this vile abode neither Arthur nor I can imagine, nor 
yet how he got out of the town. 

“Arthur tells me that insolent rebel, Allan McLane, 
broke into your house and stole the beautiful sword 
the Elector of Hesse gave to General von Knyphau- 
sen, and what more he took the Lord knows. Also 
he left an impudent letter. The general will hang 
him whenever he catches him ; but there is a proverb : 
perhaps it is sometimes the fish that is the better 
fisherman. 

“I have a queer suspicion as to this matter, and 
as to the mare Lucy being stolen. I am so glad it 
is I that have the joy to tell you of Mr. Hugh Wynne’s 
safety; and until he returns my visit, and forever 
after, I am, madam, 

“ Your devoted, humble servant, 

“ Darthea. 

“To Mad m Wynne, 

" At the Hill Farm, 

“Chestnut Hill.” 

My aunt said it was sweet and thoughtful of Dar- 
fchea, and we had a fine laugh over the burglary of 
that bad man, McLane. The woman went back with 
two notes stitched into the lining of her gown ; one 
was from my aunt, and one I wrote; and to this 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 351 

day Darthea alone knows what it said. God bless 
her ! 

It was March 20 of ’78 before I felt myself fully 
able to set out for camp. I had run no great risk. 
The country had been ravaged till it was hard to find 
a pig or a cow. Farmers were on small rations, and 
the foragers had quit looking for what did not exist. 
One dull morning I had the mare saddled, and got 
ready to leave. It was of a Friday I went away ; my 
aunt as unwilling to have me set out as she had been 
eager to have me go the day before. My Quaker 
training left me clear of all such nonsense, and, 
kissing the dear lady, I left her in tears by the road- 
side. 


XIX 


T is a good eighteen-mile ride to Valley 
Forge over the crooked Perkiomen road, 
which was none the better for the break- 
ing np of the frost. I rode along w r ith a 
light heart, but I was watchful, being so 
used to disastrous adventures. Happily, I met with 
no difficulties. 

A few miles from the bridge General Washington 
had built, I fell in with a party of horse. The officer 
in command seemed at first suspicious, but at last 
sent me on with two troopers. On the last Sunday 
of the month Friends were persistently in the habit 
of flocking into the city to General Meeting. They 
were not unwelcome, for they were apt to carry news 
of us, and neither we nor the enemy regarded them 
as neutrals. Our commander-in-chief, in an order 
of this day, declared “ that the plans settled at these 
meetings are of the most pernicious tendency,” and 
on this account directed General Lacy “that the 
parties of light horse be so disposed as to fall in with 
these people.” 

It was one of these parties of horse I had encoun- 
tered. The officer sent me on with a guard, and thus, 
in the company of two troopers, I rode through a 

352 



Hugn Wynne: Free Quaker 353 


fairly wooded country to the much- worn road leading 
down to the river. Here my guards left me with the 
picket at the bridge. It was a half-hour before the 
officer here stationed was satisfied, and meanwhile I 
stared across the Schuylkill at the precipitous bluffs, 
and wondered where lay the army which had passed 
the winter back of them. A few men along the far 
shore, and on the hill beyond a little redoubt, were 
all the signs of life or of war and its precautions. 
The bridge, over which presently I rode, was of army 
waggons weighted with stone, and on top rails with 
rude scantling. On the high posts driven into the 
river-bed for stay of the bridge were burned the 
names of the favourite generals. Once over, I walked 
Lucy up a cleft in the shore cliff, and came out on 
the huts of General Varnum’s brigade. The little 
world of an army came in view. I was on the first 
rise from the stream, a mile and a half to the south 
of the Valley Creek. To westward the land fell a lit- 
tle, and then rose to the higher slope of Mount Joy. 
To north the land again dropped, and rose beyond to 
the deep gulch of the Valley Creek. On its farther 
side the fires of a picket on Mount Misery were seen. 
Everywhere were regular rows of log huts, and on 
the first decline of every hill slope intrenehments, 
ditches, redoubts, and artillery. Far beyond, this 
group of hills fell gradually to the rolling plain. A 
mile away were the long outlying lines of Wayne, 
and the good fellows with whom I had charged at 
Germantown. 

Everywhere the forests were gone. Innumerable 

23 


354 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


camp-fires and a city of log huts told for what uses 
they had fallen. On the uplands about me ragged 
men were drilling; far away I heard the cavalry 
bugles. A certain sense of elation and gaiety came 
over me. It lasted no long time, as I rode Lucy over 
the limestone hillocks and down to the lesser valley, 
which far away fell into the greater vale of Chester. 

The worst of the winter’s trials were over, and yet 
I was horror-struck at the misery and rags of these 
poor fellows. No wonder men deserted, and officers 
were resigning in scores, desperate under the appeals 
of helpless wife and family in far-away homes. It 
was no better on the upland beyond. Everywhere 
were rude huts in rows, woeful-looking men at drill, 
dejected sentries, gaunt, hungry, ill clothed, with 
here and there a better-dressed officer to make the 
rest look all the worse. 

I thought of the grenadier British troops, fat and 
strong, in the city I had fled from, and marvelled to 
think of what kept them from sweeping this squalid 
mob away, as a housewife switches out the summer 
flies. Full of thought, I rode a mile through the 
melting drifts of snow, and came on Wayne’s brigade, 
which held the lines looking in this direction. 

I was long about it ; but at last a man pointed out 
a hut, and I went in. “ Holloa, Jack ! ” I cried. 

“ Hugh ! Hugh ! Where on earth are you from ? ” 
And he flushed as he used to do, and gave me a great 
bear-hug, saying, “ And you are not dead ! not dead ! 
Thank God ! thank God ! ” 

Thus again we met, to my unspeakable joy. He 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 355 


was about as lean as I had been, but on the whole, 
thanks to his florid skin, looked well or better than 
the best of that half -fed army. How we talked, how 
we poured out our news that cold March afternoon, 
I shall not take space to tell ; nor his great wonder 
at seeing me after all had believed me dead. 

After supper came a half-dozen officers, and I heard 
all the camp gossip, and was made heartily welcome. 
Everything was on the mend, they said. Steuben 
was drilling the men ; Greene was the new and effi- 
cient quartermaster-general. Supplies were pour- 
ing in. Mrs. Washington and Lady Stir lin g had 
come. The French were sure to make a treaty with 
us. As they talked of their privations I learned, 
for the first time, of the full horrors of the winter 
camp at the forge in the valley. There was still 
enough wretchedness to show how far worse must 
have been the pitiable condition of the army during 
that winter of ’ 77 - 78 . I passed the next day at 
rest with Jack. I had had enough of the volunteer 
business, and determined, to Jack’s regret, to take 
service with the horse. I was still unfit to march, 
and it seemed to me wise for this reason to stick to 
Lucy’s good legs, at least until my own were in better 
order. 

I think Jack felt that he was under some necessity 
to take care of me, or from that affection he has ever 
shown desired to keep me near him. He only hoped 
I would not incline to join McLane’s troop, and when 
I asked why, declaring that to be my utmost desire, 
he said it was a service of needless peril. 


356 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Upon this I laughed so that the hut shook, and 
poor Jack became quite disconcerted, and fell to 
making a variety of excuses. It is of this he says : 

“ Hugh is come from death, and there is more to 
live for. For me, that am often unready and weak, 
here is again his ever just helpfulness. He is but 
a shadow of himself, and I cannot wonder that he is 
so bitter against the enemy, or that he desires, less 
on account of his bodily feebleness than from a wish 
to revenge his cruel treatment, to serve with the 
horse. They are never more quiet than gadflies. It 
is dangerous duty, and should it cost this dear life, 
how shall I ever face Mistress Wynne ? ” 

I myself had but one thought in my own mind 
this Sunday in March, as I rode through the east 
wind. It is my way, and always was, to have but a 
single idea in mind, and to go straight to my object 
the nearest way. He was right in his belief that it 
was my burning wish to pay the debts of my poor 
abused body. I knew not when we should move, 
and the dislike of tiresome drills under Steuben, with 
a restless, perhaps a wholesome, instinct to lead a 
more active life, conspired to make my hatred seem 
reasonable. 

I could see, as I rode along through the canton- 
ment and the long lines of huts, how well chosen was 
the valley camp. The Schuylkill flowing from the 
Blue Hills turned here to eastward, the current was 
deep, the banks were high and precipitous. To the 
west, in a deep gorge, the Yalley Creek protected the 
camp. Running down from Mount Joy, a broad 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 357 


spur turned northward to the Schuylkill. Between 
this ridge and the river lay an angular table-land, 
falling to the valley beyond. Along this ridge, and 
high on Mount Joy, were the intrenchments laid out 
by Du Portail, and within them were the camps of 
rare tents and the rows of wooden huts. 

Riding north amid the stumps and the lessening 
drifts of snow, past the dark huts, and the files of 
ragged men in line for morning service, I came down 
to the angle between the Valley Creek and the Schuyl- 
kill. The river was full, and ran a gray-brown flood. 
Where the trampled slope rose from the creek I 
came upon a small but solid house, built of gray 
and ruddy sandstones, a quaint, shell-curved pent- 
house above the open doorway. Here were horses 
held by orderlies, the blue and white of French uni- 
forms, buff-and-blue officers, and the guard of fifty 
light horse on a side road in the saddle, facing the 
house. I knew I had found the headquarters. Look- 
ing about, I saw, to my joy, Mr. Hamilton talking 
with some of our allies. I rode up, and as they 
turned, I said, “I am Mr. Hugh Wynne, Colonel 
Hamilton.” 

“ Good heavens, sir ! You are not dead then, after 
ah!” 

“No,” I said, laughing; “I am alive, thank you. 
I have been in prison for months, and I am come 
now to ask for that commission in the light horse 
about which I must beg you to remind his Excel- 
lency.” 

“No wonder,” said he, “ I did not recognise you. 


358 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

We are now going to morning service. I will see 
to it at once. We thought you dead. Indeed, his 
Excellency wrote to Mistress Wynne of you. The 
general has full powers at last, and you are sure of 
your commission. Now I must leave you.” 

A few more needed words were said, and I drew 
aside to see the staff ride away. In a few minutes 
the young aide came back. 

“ You may join McLane at once. You will have 
an acting commission until a more formal one reaches 
you. I suppose you have no news ? ” 

“ None,” I said, u except of how a British jail looks.” 

“ His Excellency desires your company at dinner 
to-day at six.” 

I said I had no uniform. 

“ Look at mine,” he cried, laughing. “ I have only 
one suit, and the rest are hardly better off.” 

I drew back and waited. In a few minutes the 
general came out, and mounting, sat still until all of 
the staff were in the saddle. 

He had changed greatly from the fresh, clear- 
skinned country gentleman I saw first in Philadel- 
phia. His face was more grave, his very ruddy skin 
less clear and more bronzed. I observed that his 
eyes were deep set, light blue in colour, and of un- 
usual size ; his nose was rather heavy and large ; the 
mouth resolute and firm, with full lips. His general 
expression was sedate and tranquil. In full, neat 
buff and blue, his hair powdered, the queue carefully 
tied, he sat very erect in the saddle, and looked to 
be a good horseman. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 359 

This is all I remember at that time of this high- 
minded gentleman. I heard much of him then and 
later ; and as what I heard or saw varies a good deal 
from the idea now held of him, I shall not refrain 
from saying how he seemed to us, who saw him in 
camp and field, or in the horn- of rare leisure. But 
I shall do better, perhaps, just now to let my friend 
say what he seemed to be to his more observant and 
reflective mind. It was writ long after. 

“ Abler pens than mine,” says Jack, “have put on 
record the sorrowful glory of that dreadful camp- 
ground by Valley Forge. It is strongly charactered 
in those beseeching letters and despatches of the al- 
most heartbroken man, who poured out his grief in 
language which even to-day no man can read un- 
moved. To us he showed only a gravely tranquil 
face, which had in it something which reassured 
those starving and naked ones. Most wonderful is 
it, as I read what he wrote to inefficient, blundering 
men, to see how calmty he states our pitiful case, how 
entirely he controls a nature violent and passionate 
beyond that of most men. He was scarcely in the 
saddle as commander before the body which set him 
there was filled with dissatisfaction. 

“I think it well that we know so little of what 
went on within the walls of Congress. The silence 
of history has been friendly to many reputations. 
There need be no silence as to this man, nor any 
concealment, and there has been much. I would have 
men see him as we saw him in his anger, when no 
language was too strong; in his hour of serene 


j6o Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

kindliness, when Hamilton, the aide of twenty, was 
i my boy 1 ; in this starving camp, with naked men 
shivering all night in their blankets by the fires, 
when ‘he pitied those miseries he could neither relieve 
nor prevent . 7 Am I displeased to think that although 
he laughed rarely he liked Colonel Scammel’s strong 
stories, and would be amused by a song such as no 
woman should hear ? 

“This serene, inflexible, decisive man, biding his 
hour, could be then the venturesome soldier, willing 
to put every fortune on a chance, risking himself 
with a courage that alarmed men for his life. Does 
any but a fool think that he could have been all these 
things and not have had in him the wild blood of 
passion ? He had a love for fine clothes and show. 
He was, I fear, at times extravagant, and, as I have 
heard, could not pay his doctor’s bill, and would 
postpone that, and send him a horse and a little 
money to educate his godson, the good doctor’s son. 
As to some of his letters, they contained jests not 
gross, but not quite fit for grave seigniors not virgini * 
bus puerisque. There is one to Lafayette I have been 
shown by the marquis. It is most amusing, but — 
oh, fie! Was he religious? I do not know. Men 
say so. He might have been, and yet have had his 
hours of ungoverned rage, or of other forms of hu- 
man weakness. Like a friend of mine, he was not 
given to speech concerning his creed.” 

My Jack was right. Our general’s worst foes were 
men who loved their country, but who knew not to 
comprehend this man. I well remember how I used 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 361 


to stop at the camp-fires and hear the men talk of 
him. Here was no lack of sturdy sense. The notion 
of Adams and Rush of appointing new major-generals 
every year much amused them, and the sharp logic 
of cold and empty bellies did not move them from 
the belief that their chief was the right man. How 
was it they could judge so. well and these others so 
ill? 

He had no tricks of the demagogue. He coveted 
no popularity. He knew not to seek favour by going 
freely among the men. The democratic feeling in 
our army was intense, and yet this reserved aristo- 
crat had to the end the love and confidence of every 
soldier in the ranks. ^ 


XX 


SHALL pass lightly over the next two 
months. I saw Jack rarely, and McLane 
kept us busy with foraging parties and 
incessant skirmishes. Twice we rode dis- 
guised as British troopers into the very 
heart of the city, and at night as far down as Second 
street bridge, captured a Captain Sandford and car- 
ried him off in a mad ride through the pickets. The 
life suited maid Lucy and myself admirably. I grew 
well and strong, and, I may say, paid one of my debts 
when we stole in and caught a rascal named Varnum, 
one of our most cruel turnkeys. This hulking coward 
went out at a run through the lines, strapped behind 
a trooper, near to whom I rode pistol in hand. We 
got well peppered and lost a man. I heard Varnum 
cry out as we passed the outer picket, and supposed 
he was alarmed, as he had fair need to be. 

We pulled up a mile away, McLane, as usual, laugh- 
ing like a boy just out of a plundered apple-orchard. 
To my horror Varnum was dead, with a ball through 
his brain. His arms, which were around the trooper’s 
waist, were stiffened, so that it was hard to unclasp 
them. This rigidness of some men killed in battle 
I have often seen. 



362 



Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 363 


On Saturday, the 16th of May, Marquis Lafayette 
came to our huts and asked me to walk apart with 
him. We spoke French at his request, as he did not 
wish to be overheard, and talked English but ill. He 
said his Excellency desired to have fuller knowledge 
of the forts on the Neck and at the lower ferry, as 
well as some intelligence as to the upper lines north 
of the town. Mr. Hamilton thought me very fit for 
the affair, but the general-in-chief had said, in his 
kind way, that I had suffered too much to put my 
neck in a noose, and that I was too well known in 
the town, although it seemed to him a good choice. 

When the marquis had said his say I remained 
silent, until at last he added that I was free to refuse, 
and none would think the worse of me ; it was not 
an order. 

I replied that I was only thinking how I should doit. 

He laughed, and declared he had won a guinea of 
Mr. Hamilton. “ I did bet on your face, Monsieur 
Vynne. I make you my compliments, and shall I 
say it is 1 Yes ’ ? ” 

“ Yes ; and I shall go to-morrow, Sunday.” And 
with this he went away. 

When I told McLane he said it was a pity, because 
the redcoats were to have a grand fandango on the 
18th, and he meant to amuse himself that evening, 
which he did to some purpose, as you shall hear. 

I spent the day in buying from a farmer a full 
Quaker dress, and stained my face that night a fine 
brownish tint with stale pokeberry juice. It was all 
the ink we had. 


364 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Very early on the 17th I rode at dawn with a 
trooper to my aunt’s house, and in the woods back 
of it changed my clothes for the Quaker rig and 
broad-brimmed hat. To my delight, my aunt did not 
know me when I said I wanted to buy her remaining 
cow. She was angry enough, until I began to laugh 
and told her to look at me. Of course she entreated 
me not to go, but seeing me resolved, bade me take 
the beast and be off. She would do without milk; 
as for me, I should be the cause of her death. 

1 set out about six with poor Sukey, and was so 
bothered by the horrible road and by her desire to 
get back to her stall that it was near eleven in the 
morning before we got to town. As usual, food was 
welcome, and a trooper was sent with me to the 
commissary at the Bettering-house, where I was paid 
three pounds six after much sharp bargaining in 
good Quaker talk. A pass to return was given me, 
and with this in my pocket I walked away. 

I went through the woods and the Sunday quiet of 
the camps without trouble, saying I had lost my way, 
and innocently showing my pass to everybody. Back 
and to south of the works on Callowhill were the Hes- 
sians and the Fourth foot. The Seventh and Four- 
teenth British Grenadiers lay from Delaware 
Seventh to westward ; the Yagers at Schuylkill Third 
street, or where that would be on Mr. Penn’s plan ; 
and so to Cohocsink Creek dragoons and foot. North 
of them were Colonel Montresor’s nine blockhouses, 
connected by a heavy stockade and abatis, and in 
front of this chevaux-de-frise and the tangled mass 
*f dead trees which had so beaten me when I escaped. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 365 


The stockade and the brush and the tumbled fruit- 
trees were dry from long -exposure, and were, 1 
thought, well fitted to defy attack. 

I turned west again, and went out to the Schuyl- 
kill River, where at the upper ferry was now a bridge 
with another fort. Then I walked southward along 
the stream. The guards on the river-bank twice 
turned me back ; but at last, taking to the woods, I 
got into the open farm country beyond South Street, 
and before dark climbed a dead pine and was able 
to see the fort near to Mr. Andrew Hamilton * seat 
of the Woodlands, set high above the lower ferry, 
which was now well bridged. 

Pretty tired, I lay down awhile, and then strolled 
off into town to get a lodging. When past Walnut 
street I found the streets unusually full. I had of 
purpose chosen First-day for my errand, expecting 
to find our usual. Sunday quiet, but the licence of an 
army had changed the ways of this decorous town. 
Every one had a lantern, which gave an odd look 
of festivity, and, to comply with the military rule, I 
bought me a lantern. Men were crying tickets for 
the play of the “ Mock Doctor” on Tuesday, and for 
Saturday, “The Deuce is in Him ! ” Others sold places 
for the race on Wednesday, and also hawked almanacs 
and Tory broadsides. The stores on Second street 
were open and well lighted, and the coffee-house was 
full of redcoats carousing, while loose women tapped 
on the windows and gathered at the doors. All 
seemed merry and prosperous. Here and there a 
staid Quaker in drab walked up the busy street on 
his homeward way, undistracted by the merriment 


366 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


and noise of the thronged thoroughfare. A dozen red- 
coats went by to change the guards set at the doors 
of general officers. A negro paused on the sidewalk, 
crying, “ Pepper-pot, smoking hot ! ” Another offered 
me the pleasant calamus-root, which in those days 
people liked to chew. A man in a red coat walked 
in the roadway ringing a bell and crying, “Lost 
child ! ” Sedan-chairs or chaises set down officers. 
The quiet, sedate city of Penn had lost its air of de- 
mure respectability, and I felt like one in a strange 
place. This sense of alien surroundings may have 
helped to put me off my guard ; for, because of being 
a moment careless, I ran a needless risk. Over the 
way I saw two blacks holding lanterns so as to show 
a great bill pasted on a wall. I crossed to look at 
it. Above was a Latin motto, which I cannot now 
recall, but the body of it I remember well : 

“ All Intrepid, able-bodied Heroes who are willing 
to serve against the Arbitrary Usurpations of a 
Tyranickal Congress can now, by enlisting, acquire 
the polite Accomplishments of a Soldier. 

“ Such spirited Fellows will, besides their Pay, be 
rewarded at the End of the War with 
Fifty Acres 
of Land, 

To which every Heroe may retire and Enjoy His 
Lass and His Bottle.” 

This so much amused me that I stood still to gaze j 
for below it was seen the name of an old schoolmate^ 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 367 


William Allen, now a lieutenant-colonel, in want of 
Tory recruits. 

I felt suddenly a rousing wliack on the back, and 
turning in a rage, saw two drunken grenadiers. 

“Join the harmy, friend; make a cussed fine 
Quaker bombardier.” 

I instantly cooled, for people began to stop, pleased 
at the fun of baiting a Quaker. The others cried, 
“ Give us a drink, old Thee-and-Thou ! ” Some sol- 
diers paused, hoping for a ring and a fight. I was 
pushed about and hustled. I saw that at any mo- 
ment it might end ill. I had a mighty mind toward 
anything but non-resistance, but still, fearing to hit 
the fellows, I cried out meekly, “Thou art wrong, 
friends, to oppress a poor man.” Just then I heard 
William Allen’s voice back of me, crying, “ Let that 
Quaker alone ! ” As he quickly exercised the author- 
ity of an officer, the gathering crowd dispersed, and 
the grenadiers staggered away. I was prompt 
enough to slip down High street, glad to be so well 
out of it. 

At the inn of the "Bag of Nails,” on Front street, 
I found a number of Friends, quiet over their Hol- 
lands. I sat down in a dark corner, and would have 
had a well-earned bowl ; but I was no sooner seated 
than in came a man with a small bell, and, walking 
among the guests, rang it, saying, “ It is half after 
ten, and there will be no more liquor served. No 
more ! no more ! ” 

I knew that it would be impossible to break this 
decree, and therefore contented myself with cold 


368 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


beef and cole-slaw. I went to bed, and thought 
over the oddity of my being helped by William Allen, 
and of how easily I might have been caught. 

In washing next morning I was off my guard, and 
got rid of the most of my pokeberry juice. I saw 
my folly too late, but there was no help for it. I 
resolved to keep my wide brim well down over my 
face, seeing in a mirror how too much like my own 
self I had become. 

I settled my score and went out, passing down the 
river-front. Here I counted and took careful note of 
the war-ships anchored all the way along the Dela- 
ware. At noon I bought an u Observer/ 7 and learned 
that Mr. Howe had lost a spaniel dog, and that 
there was to be a great festival that night in hon- 
our of Sir William Howe’s departure for England. 
Would Darthea be there? I put aside the temp- 
tation to see that face again, and set about learn- 
ing what forts were on the neck of land to south, 
where the two rivers, coming together at an angle, 
make what we call the Neck. It was a wide lowland 
then, but partly diked and crossed by many ditches ; a 
marshy country much like a bit of Holland, with here 
and there windmills to complete the resemblance. 

It was so open that, what with the caution required 
in approaching the block forts and the windabout 
ways the ditches made needful, it was late before I 
got the information I needed. About nine on t his 
18th of May, and long after dusk, I came upon the 
lower fort, as to which the general was desirous of 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 369 


more complete knowledge. I walked around it, and 
was at last ordered off by the guards. 

My errand was now nearty done. My way north 
took me close to Walnut Grove, the old country-seat 
of my father’s friend, Joseph Wharton, whom, on 
account of his haughty ways, the world’s people 
wickedly called the Quaker duke. The noise of people 
come to see, and the faint strains of distant music, 
had for an hour reminded me, as I came nearer the 
gardens of Walnut Grove, that what McLane had 
called the great fandango in honour of Sir William 
Howe was in full activity. Here in the tall box alleys 
as a child I had many times played, and every foot of 
the ground was pleasingly familiar. 

The noise increased as I approached through the 
growing darkness ; for near where the lane reached 
the Delaware was a small earthwork, the last of those 
I needed to visit. I tried after viewing it to cross the 
double rows of grenadiers which guarded this road, 
but was rudely repulsed, and thus had need to go 
back of their line and around the rear of the mansion. 
When opposite to the outhouses used for servants I 
paused in the great crowd of townsfolk who were 
applauding or sullenly listening to the music heard 
through the open windows. I had no great desire to 
linger, but as it was dark I feared no recognition, 
and stayed to listen to the fine band of the Hessians 
and the wild clash of their cymbals, which, before 
these Germans came, no one had heard in the colonies. 
My work was over I had but to go far back of the 

24 


370 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


house and make my way to camp by any one of the 
ferries. Unluckily the music so attracted me that I 
stayed on, and, step by step, quite at my ease, drew 
nearer to the mansion. 

The silly extravagance of the festival, with its after- 
noon display of draped galleys and saluting ships 
gay with flags, and its absurd mock show of a tour- 
nament in ridiculous costumes, I have no temptation 
to describe, nor did I see this part of it. It was 
meant to honour Sir William Howe,, a man more 
liked than respected, and as a soldier beneath con- 
tempt. I had no right to have lingered, and my idle 
curiosity came near to have cost me dear. The house 
was precisely like Mount Pleasant, later General 
Arnold’s home on the Schuylkill. In the centre of 
a large lawn stood a double mansion of stone, and a 
little to each side were seen outhouses for servants 
and kitchen use. The open space toward the water 
was extensive enough to admit of the farcical tilting 
of the afternoon. A great variety of evergreen trees 
and shrubs gave the house a more shaded look than 
the season would otherwise have afforded. Among 
these were countless lanterns illuminating the 
grounds, and from the windows on all sides a blaze 
of light was visible. Back of the house two roads 
ran off, one to west and one to north, and along these 
were waggons coming and going, servants, orderlies, 
and people with supplies. 

At this locality there was much confusion, and, 
picking up a pair of lanterns, I went unquestioned 
past the guard on the south side of Walnut Lane. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 371 


Indeed, the sentries here and most of the orderlies 
were by this time well in liquor. Once within the 
grounds, which I knew well, I was perfectly at home. 
No one of the guests was without at the side or front. 
Now and then a servant passed through the alleys 
of clipped box to see to the lanterns. I was quite 
alone. In the shelter of a row of low hemlocks and 
box I stood on a garden-seat at the south side of the 
house, fifteen feet from a large bow- window, and, 
parting the branches, I commanded a full view of the 
dancing-room. I had no business here, and I knew 
it ; I meant but to look and be gone. The May night 
was warm and even sultry, so that the sashes were 
all raised and the curtains drawn aside. I saw with 
ease a charming scene. 

The walls were covered with mirrors lent for the 
occasion, and the room I commanded was beautifully 
draped with flags and hangings. Young blacks stood 
at the doors, or came and went with refreshments. 
These servants were clad in blue and white, with red 
turbans and metal collars and bracelets. The six 
Knights of the Blended Roses, or some like silliness, 
had cast their queer raiments and w T ere in uniform. 
Their six chosen ladies were still in party-coloured 
costumes, which were not to my taste. Most of the 
women— there were but some threescore, almost all 
Tories or Moderates— were in the gorgeous brocades 
and the wide hooped skirts of the day. The extrav- 
agance of the costumes struck me. The head-dresses, 
a foot above the head with aigrets and feathers and 
an excess of powder, seemed to me quite astonishing. 


372 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


I stood motionless, caught by the beauty of the 
moving picture before me. I have ever loved colour, 
and here was a feast of it hard to equal. There were 
red coats and gold epaulets, sashes and ribboned 
orders, the green and red of the chasseurs of Bruns- 
wick, blue navy uniforms, the gold lace and glitter 
of staff-officers, and in and out among them the 
clouds of floating muslin, gorgeous brocades, flash- 
ing silk petticoats, jewels, and streaming ribbons. 
The air was full of powder shaken from wig, queue, 
and head-dress j spurs clinked, stiff gown skirts 
rustled. The moving mass of colour, lovely faces, 
and manly forms bent and swayed in ordered move- 
ment as the music of the grenadier band seemed to 
move at will these puppets of its harmony. 

They were walking a minuet, and its tempered 
grace, which I have never ceased to admire, seemed 
to suit well the splendour of embroidered gowns and 
the brilliant glow of the scarlet coats. I began to 
note the faces and to see them plainly, being, as I 
have said, not fifteen feet away from the window. 
Sir William Howe was dancing with Miss Redman. 
I was struck, as others have been, with his likeness to 
Washington, but his face wanted the undisturbed 
serenity of our great chiefs. I dare say he knew 
better than to accept as his honest right the fulsome 
homage of this parting festival. I thought indeed 
that he looked discontented. I caught glimpses of 
Colonel Tarleton bowing to Miss Bond. Then I saw 
Miss Franks sweeping a deep curtsey to Lord Cath- 
cart as he bowed. There were the fair Shippen 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 373 


women, the Chews, the provost’s blonde daughter 
with Sir John Wrottesley, Mrs. Ferguson, my aunt’s 
“ Tory cat,” in gay chat with Sir Charles Calder, Gal- 
loways, Allens— a pretty show of loyal dames, with 
— save the officers — few young men I knew. 

I started as Darthea moved across the window- 
space on the arm of Andre, while following them 
were Montresor and my cousin. I felt the blood go 
to my face as I saw them, and drew back, letting the 
parted branches come together. With this storm of 
love and hate came again the sudden reflection that 
I had no right to be here, and that I was off the track 
of duty. I stood a moment; the night was dark; 
lights gleamed far out on the river from the battle- 
ships. The strains of their bands fell and rose, 
faintly heard in the distance. 

I saw as it were before me with distinctness the 
camp on the windy hill, the half-starved, ragged men, 
the face of the great chief they loved. Once again 
I looked back on this contrasting scene of foolish 
luxury, and turned to go from where I felt I never 
should have been. Poor old Joseph Wharton ! I 
smiled to think that, could he have known to what 
worldly use his quiet Quaker home had come, he 
would have rolled uneasy in his unnamed grave in 
the ground of the Arch Street Meeting. 

Turning, I gave a few moments of thought to my 
plans. Suddenly the music ceased, and, with laughter 
and pretty cries of expectation, gay gown and fan 
and hoop and the many-coloured uniforms trooped 
out from the doors, as I learned later, to see the 


374 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


fireworks, over which were to be set off for final 
flattery in fiery letters, “ Tes Lauriers Sont Immortels .” 
I hope he liked them, those unfading laurels ! The 
shrubbery was at once alive with joyous women and 
laughing men. 

I had not counted on this, and despite my disguise 
I felt that any moment might put me in deadly peril. 
The speedy fate of a spy I knew too well. 

They were all around me in a minute, moving to 
and fro, merry and chatting. I heard Andre say to 
Darthea, “ It must please the general j a great success. 
I shall write it all to London. Ah, Miss Peniston ! 
how to describe the ladies ! ” 

“And their gowns ! ” cried Darthea, “their gowns ! ” 

“I am reduced to desperation,” said Andre. “I 
must ask the women to describe one another ; hey, 
Wynne?” They were now standing apart from the 
rest, and I, hid by the bushes, was not five feet away. 

“ A dangerous resource,” returned Wynne. “ The 
list of wounded vanities would be large. How like 
a brown fairy is Miss Franks l Who shall describe 
her? No woman will dare.” 

“ You might ask Mr. Oliver de Lancey,” said Miss 
Darthea. “ She would be secure of a pretty picture.” 

“And you,” said Wynne— “who is to be your 
painter ? ” 

“ I shall beg for the place,” cried Andr6. 

“ I think I shall take some rebel officer,” said Dar- 
thea, saucily. “ Think how fresh we should look to 
those love-starved gentlemen whom Sir William has 
brought to such abject submission.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 375 


Andr6 laughed, but not very heartily. As to 
Wynne, he was silent. The ca,ptain went on to say 
how sad it was that just as the general was ready to 
sweep those colonials out of existence — 

“ Why not say rebels, Andre ? ” Wynne broke in. 

“Better not! better not! I never do. It only 
makes more bitter what is bad enough. But where 
are the fireworks ? ” 

Meanwhile I was in dire perplexity, afraid to stir, 
hoping that they would move away. 

“There is a seat hereabouts,” said my cousin. 
“ You must be tired, Miss Peniston.” 

“A little” 

“ I will look,” said Wynne. “ This way.” 

As I was in possession of the seat, I got down at 
once, but in two steps Arthur was beside me, and 
for an instant the full blaze from the window caught 
me square in the face. He was nearest, but Darthea 
was just behind him, and none other but Andre close 
at hand. 

“ By heavens ! ” I heard, and my cousin had me by 
the collar. “ Here, Andre ! A spy ! a spy ! Quick ! ” 

I heard a cry from Darthea, and saw her reel 
against my cousin’s shoulder. 

“ Help ! help ! I am— ill.” 

Arthur turned, exclaiming, “ Darthea ! My God ! ” 
and thus distracted between her and me, let slack 
his hold. I tore away and ran around the house, 
upsetting an old officer, and so through the shrub- 
bery and the servants, whom I hustled one way and 
another. I heard shouts of “ Spy ! ” “ Stop thief ! 9 


376 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


and the rattle of arms all around me. Several wag- 
gons blocked the roadway. I felt that I must be 
caught, and darted under a waggon body. I was 
close to the lines as I rose from beneath the waggon. 

At this instant cannonry thundered out to north, 
and a rocket rose in air. The grenadiers looked up 
in surprise. Seeing the momentary disorder of these 
men, who were standing at intervals of some six feet 
apart, I darted through them and into the crowd 
of spectators. I still heard shouts and orders, but 
pushed in among the people outside of the guard, 
hither and thither, using my legs and elbows to good 
purpose. Increasing rattle of musketry was heard 
in the distance, the ships beating to quarters, the 
cries and noises back of me louder and louder. I 
was now moving slowly in the crowd, and at last got 
clean away from it. 

What had happened I knew not, but it was most 
fortunate for me. "When a few yards from the people 
I began to run, stumbling over the fields, into and 
through ditches, and because of this alarm was at 
last, I concluded, reasonably safe. 

I had run nearly a mile before I sat down to get 
my breath and cool off. Away to north a great flare 
of red fire lit up the sky. What it was I knew not, 
but sat awhile and gave myself leave to think. My 
cousin had instantly known me, but he had hesitated 
a moment. I knew the signs of indecision in his 
face too well to be misled. I had felt, as he seized 
me, that I was lost. I could not blame him ; it was 
clearly his duty. But I do not think I should have 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 377 


•willingly recognised him under like circumstances. 
My very hatred would have made me more than hes- 
itate. Still, who can say what he would do in the 
haste of such a brief moral conflict ? I could recall, 
as I sat still and reflected, the really savage joy in 
his face as he collared me. How deeply he must 
love her ! He seemed, as it were, to go to pieces at 
her cry. Was she ill? Did her quick-coming sense 
of my danger make her faint? I had seen her 
unaccountably thus affected once before, as he who 
reads these pages may remember. Or was it a ready- 
witted ruse ? Ah, my sweet Darthea ! I wanted to 
think it that. 

The blaze to northward was still growing brighter, 
and being now far out on the marshes south of the 
town, I made up my mind to use my pass at the 
nearer ferry, which we call Gray’s, and this, too, as 
soon as possible, for fear that orders to stop a Qua- 
ker spy might cause me to regret delay. 

When I came to Montresor’s bridge my thought 
went back to my former escape, and, avoiding all 
appearance of haste, I stayed to ask the sergeant in 
charge of the guard what the blaze meant. He said 
it was an alert. 

A few days after, McLane related to me with glee 
how with Clowe’s dragoons and a hundred foot he 
had stolen up to the lines, every man having a pot 
of tar ; how they had smeared the dry abatis and 
brush, and at a signal fired the whole mass of dried 
wood. He was followed into the fastnesses of the 
Wissahickon, and lost his ensign and a man or two 


378 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


near Barren Hill. The infantry scattered and hid 
in the woods, but McLane swam his horse across the 
Schuylkill, got the help of Morgan's rifles, and, re- 
turning, drove his pursuers up to their own intrench- 
ments. He said it was the best fun he had ever had, 
and he hoped the Tory ladies liked his fireworks. 
At all events, it saved my neck. 

As I walked through Gray's Lane I fell to reflect- 
ing upon Andre's behaviour, of which I have said 
nothing. I came to the conclusion that he could 
hardly have recognised me. This seemed likely 
enough, because we had not met often, and I too, 
apart from my disguise, had changed very greatly. 
And yet why had he not responded to an obvious 
call to duty 1 He certainly was not very quick to 
act on Arthur's cry for help. But Darthea was on 
his arm, and only let it go when she fell heavily 
against my cousin. 

I had a fine story for Jack, and so, thinking with 
wonder of the whirl of adventure into which I had 
fallen ever since I left home, I hurried along. It is 
a singular fact, but true, that certain men never have 
unusual adventures. I am not one of these. Even 
in the most quiet times of peace I meet with odd 
incidents, and this has always been my lot. With 
this and other matters in my mind, resolving that 
never again would I permit any motive to lead me 
off the track of the hour's duty, I walked along. I 
had had a lesson. 

I sought my old master's house, and reached it in 
an hour. Here I found food and ready help, and 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 379 


before evening next day, May 19, was at the camp. 
1 spent an hour in carefully writing out my report, 
and Jack, under my directions, being clever with the 
pencil, made plans of the forts and the enemy’s de- 
fences, which I took to headquarters, and a copy of 
which I have inserted in these memoirs. I had every 
reason to believe that my report was satisfactory. 
I then went back to discourse with Jack over my 
adventures. You may see hanging framed in my 
library, and below General von Knyphausen’s sword, 
a letter which an orderly brought to me the next 
day: 

“ Sir : It would be an impropriety to mention in 
general orders a service such as you have rendered. 
To do so might subject you to greater peril, or to ill 
treatment were you to fall into the hands of the en- 
emy. I needed no fresh proof of your merit to bear 
it in remembrance. No one can feel more sensibly 
the value of your gallant conduct, or more rejoice 
for your escape. 

“ I have the honour to be 

“Your obed 1 Hum e Serv*, 

“ G e Washington. 

"To Lieut. Hugh Wynne, etc.” 

This was writ in his own hand, as were many of 
his letters, even such as were of great length. The 
handwriting betrays no mark of haste, and seems 
penned with such exactness as all his correspondence 
shows. It may be that he composed slowly, and thus 



Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 381 


of need wrote with no greater speed than his thought 
permitted. I at least found it hard to explain how, 
in the midst of affairs, worried, interrupted, distracted, 
he does at no time show in his penmanship any sign 
of haste. 

When I handed this letter to Jack I could not 
speak for a moment, and yet I was never much the 
victim of emotion. My dear Jack said it was not 
enough. For my own part, a captain’s commission 
would not have pleased me as well. I ran no risk 
which I did not bring upon myself by that which 
was outside of my duty ; and as to this part of my 
adventure, I told no one but Jack, being much 
ashamed of the weakness which came so near to 
costing me not only my life, but— what would have 
been worse— the success of my errand. 


XXI 


HE warm spring weather, and Genera] 
Greene’s good management as quarter- 
master, brought us warmth and better 
diet. The Conestoga wains rolled in with 
grain and good rum. Droves of cattle 
appeared, and as the men were fed the drills pros- 
pered. Soldiers and officers began to amuse them- 
selves. A theatre was arranged in one of the bigger 
barns, and we— not I, but others— played “ The Fair 
Penitent.” Colonel Grange had a part, and made a 
fine die of it ; but the next day, being taken with a 
pleurisy, came near to making a more real exit from 
life. I think it was he who invited Jack Warder to 
play Calista. Lady Kitty Stirling had said he would 
look the part well, with his fair locks and big inno- 
cent blue eyes, and she would lend him her best silk 
flowered gown and a fine lot of lace. Jack was in a 
rage, but the colonel, much amused, apologised, and 
so it blew over. His Excellency and Lady Washing- 
ton were to see the play, and the Ladies Stirling 
and Madam Greene were all much delighted. 

“ The Recruiting Officer ” w r e should have had later, 
but about i the latter part of May we got news of 
the British as about to move out of my dear home 

382 




Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 383 


city. After this was bruited about, no one cared to 
do anything but get ready to leave the winter huts 
and be after Sir Henry. In fact, long before this 
got out there was an air of hopeful expectation in 
the army, and the men began, like the officers, to 
amuse themselves. The camp-fires were gay, jokes 
seemed to revive in the warm air, and once more men 
laughed. It was pleasant, too, to see the soldiers at 
fives, or the wickets up and the cricket-balls of tightly 
rolled rag ribbons flying, or fellows at leap-frog, all 
much encouraged by reason of having better diet, 
and no need now to shrink their stomachs with green 
persimmons or to live without rum. As to McLane 
and our restless Wayne, they were about as quiet as 
disturbed wasps. The latter liked nothing better this 
spring than to get up an alert by running cannon 
down to the hills on the west of the Schuylkill, pitch- 
ing shot at the bridges, and then to be off and away be- 
fore the slow grenadiers could cross in force. Thus 
it was that never a week went by without adventures. 
Captain McLane let neither man nor horse live long 
at ease ; but whatever he did was planned with the 
extreme of care and carried out with equal audacity. 

The army was most eager for the summer campaign. 
We had begun, as I have said, to suspect that Sir 
Henry Clinton, who had succeeded Howe, was about 
to move ; but whither he meant to march, or his 
true object, our camp-fire councils could not guess 
as yet. 

Very early in the evening of June 17, I met Col- 
onel Hamilton riding in haste. “ Come,” he said ; u I 


384 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


am to see Wayne and the marquis. Clinton is on 
the wing, as we have long expected. He will very 
likely have already crossed into the Jerseys. Will 
you have a place in the foot if his Excellency can get 
you a captaincy ? ” 

I said “ Yes ” instantly. 

“ You seem to know your own mind, Mr. Wynne. 
There will he more hard knocks and more glory.” 

I thought so too, hut I was now again in the full 
vigour of health, and an appointment in the foot 
would, as I hoped, bring me nearer to Jack. 

And now joy and excitement reigned throughout 
the camps. The news was true. On the 18th of June 
Sir Henry Clinton, having gotten ready hy sending 
on in advance his guns and baggage, cleverly slipped 
across the Delaware, followed hy every Tory who 
feared to remain ; some three thousand, it was said 
Long before dawn we of McLane’s light horse 
were in the saddle. As we passed Chestnut Hill I 
fell out to tell my aunt the good news. I was scarce 
gone hy before she began to make ready to follow 
us. As we pushed at speed through Germantown, 
it became sure that the evacuation had been fully 
accomplished. We raced down Front street at a rate 
which seemed reckless to me. McLane gave no or- 
ders, but galloped on ahead in his usual mad way. 
The townsfolk were wild with joy. Women stood 
in tears as we went by ; men cheered us and the boys 
hurrahed. At Arch and Fron t streets, as we pulled up, 
I saw a poor little cornet come out of a house half 
bewildered and buttoning his red jacket. I pushed 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 385 


Lucy on to the sidewalk and caught him by the col- 
lar. He made a great fuss and had clearly overslept 
himself. I was hurriedly explaining, amid much 
laughter, when McLane called out, “A nice doll-baby ! 
Up with him!” And away he went, behind a 
trooper. At Third street bridge were two other offi- 
cers who must have been tipsy overnight and have 
slept too late. At last, with our horses half dead, 
we walked them back to Front and High streets, 
and got off for a rest and a mug of beer at the coffee- 
house. Soon came a brigade of Virginians, and we 
marched away to camp on the common called Centre 
Square. 

The streets were full of huzzaing crowds. Our 
flags, long hid, were flying. Scared tradesmen were 
pulling down the king’s arms they had set over their 
signs. The better Tory houses were closed, and few 
of this class were to be seen in the streets. 

Major-General Arnold followed after us. Unable, 
because of his wound, to accept a command in the 
field, he took up his abode as commandant of the 
city in Mr. Morris’s great house at the northeast 
comer of Front and High streets. I saw this gallant 
soldier in May, at the time he joined the camp at the 
Forge, when he was handsomely cheered by the men. 
He w T as a man dark and yet ruddy, soldierly looking, 
with a large nose, and not unlike his Excellency as 
to the upper part of his face. He was still on crutches, 
being thin and worn from the effects of the hurt he 
received at Saratoga. 

As soon as possible I left the troop and rode away 

25 


386 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


on Lucy down High street to Second and over the 
bridges to my home. 

I Avas no longer the mere lad I had left it. Com- 
mand of others, the leisure for thought in the camp, 
the sense that I had done my duty well, had made 
of me a resolute and decisive man. As I went 
around to the stables in the rear of the house it 
seemed to me as if I must in a minute see those blue 
eyes, and hear the pretty French phrases of tender 
love which in times of excitement used to rise to my 
mother’s lips. It is thus as to some we love. We 
never come to feel concerning them that certainty 
of death which sets apart from us forever others who 
are gone. To this day a thought of her brings back 
that smiling face, and she li\ r es for me the life of 
eternal remembrance. 

No one Avas in the stable when I unsaddled the 
tired mare. At the kitchen door the servants ran 
out with cries of joy. With a word I passed them, 
smelling my father’s pipe in the hall, for it was even- 
ing, and supper was over. 

He rose, letting his pipe drop, as I ran to fall on 
his great chest, and pray him to pardon, once for all, 
what I had felt that it was my duty to do. I was 
stayed a moment as I saw him. He had lost flesh 
continually, and his massive build and unusual height 
showed now a gaunt and sombre man, with clothes 
too loose about him. I thought that his eyes were 
filling, but the habits of a life controlled him. 

He held to a chair with his left hand, and coldly 
put out the right to meet my eager grasp. I stood 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 387 


still, my instinct of tenderness checked. I could only 
repeat, “ Father, father, I have come home.” 

“Yes,” he said, “thou hast come home. Sit 
down.” 

I obeyed. Then he stooped to pick up his pipe, 
and raising his strong gray head, looked me over in 
perfect silence. 

“Am I not welcome,” I cried, “in my mother’s 
home ? Are we always to be kept apart ? I have 
done what, under God, seemed to me His will. Can- 
not you, who go your way so steadily, see that it is 
the right of your son to do the same? You have 
made it hard for me to do my duty. Think as seems 
best to you of what I do or shall do, but have for me 
the charity Christ teaches. I shall go again, father, 
and you may never see me more on earth. Let there 
be peace between us now. For my mother’s sake, 
let us have peace. If I have cost you dear, believe 
me, I owe to you such sad hours as need never have 
been. My mother— she— ” 

During this outburst he heard me with motionless 
attention, but at my last word he raised his hand. 
“ I like not thy naming of thy mother. It has been 
to me ever a reproach that I saw not how far her 
indulgence was leading thee out of the ways of 
FriendSo There are who by birthright are with us, 
but not of us— not of us.” 

This strange speech startled me into fuller self- 
command. I remembered his strange dislike to hear 
her mentioned. As he spoke his fingers opened and 
shut on the arms of the chair in which he sat, and 


388 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


here and there on his large-featured face the muscles 
twitched. 

“ I will not hear her named again/’ he added. “ As 
for thee, my son, this is thy home. I will not drive 
thee out of it.” 

“ Drive me out ! ” I exclaimed. I was horror-struck. 

“And why not? Since thou wert a boy I have 
borne all things: drunkenness, debauchery, blood- 
guiltiness, rebellion against those whom God has set 
over us, and at last war, the murder of thy fellows.” 

I was silent. What could I say? The words 
which came from my heart had failed to touch him. 
He had buried even the memory of my mother. I 
remembered Aunt Gainer’s warnings as to his health, 
and set myself at once to hear and reply with gentle* 
ness. 

He went on as if he knew my thought: “I am 
no longer the man I was. I am deserted by my son 
when I am in greatest need of him. Had it not 
pleased God to send me for my stay, in this my lone- 
liness, thy Cousin Arthur, I should have been glad 
to rest from the labours of earth.” 

“ Arthur ! My cousin ! ” 

“ I said so. He has become to me as a son. It is 
not easy for one brought up among dissolute men to 
turn away and seek righteousness, but he hath heard 
as thou didst never hear, nor wouldst. He hath given 
up dice and cards, and hath asked of me books such as 
Besse’s 1 Sufferings 7 and George Fox’s ‘ Testimony.’” 

This was said so simply and in such honest faith 
that I could not resist to smile. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 389 

“ I did not ask thee to believe me/’ said my father, 
sharply; “and if because a man is spiritually re- 
minded and hath stayed to consider his sin, it is for 
thee but cause of vain mirth, I will say no more. 
I have lost a son, and found one. I would it had 
been he whom I lost that is now found.” 

I answered gravely, “ Father, the man is a hypo- 
crite. He saw me dying a prisoner in jail, starved 
and in rags. He left me to die.” 

“ I have heard of this. He saw some one about to 
die. He thought he was like thee.” 

“ But he heard my name.” 

“ That cannot be. He said it was not thee. He 
said it ! ” 

“ He lied ; and why should he have ever mentioned 
the matter to thee— as indeed he did to others— ex- 
cept for precaution’s sake, that if, as seemed unlike 
enough, I got well, he might have some excuse ¥ It 
seems to me a weak and foolish action, but none the 
less wicked.” 

My father listened, but at times with a look of 
being puzzled. “ I do not think I follow thy argu- 
ment, Hugh,” he said, “neither does thy judgment 
of the business seem favoured by that which I know 
of thy cousin.” 

“Father, that man is my enemy. He hates me 
because— because Darthea is my friend, and but for 
her 1 should have rotted in the jail, with none to 
help me.” 

“ Thy grandfather lay in Shrewsbury Gate House 
a year for a better cause, and as for thy deliverance 


390 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


I heard of it later. It did seem to Arthur that the 
young woman had done more modestly to have asked 
his help than to have been so forward. 7 

My father spoke with increase of the deliberate- 
ness at all times one of his peculiarities, which seemed 
to go well with the bigness of his build. This slow- 
ness in talk seemed now to be due in part to a slight 
trouble in finding the word he required. It gave me 
time to observe how involved was the action of his 
mind. The impression of his being indirect and less 
simple than of old was more marked as our talk went 
on than I can here convey by any possible record of 
what he said. I only succeeded in making him more 
obstinate in his belief, as was always the case when 
any opposed him. Yet I could not resist adding: 
“If, as you seem to think, Arthur is my friend, I 
would you could have seen his face when at that silly 
Jlischianza he caught me in disguise.” 

“ Did he not do his duty after thy creed and his ? ” 

“ It was not that, father. Some men might have 
hesitated even as to the duty. Mr. Andre did not 
help him, and his debt to us was small. Had I been 
taken I should have swung as a spy on the gallows 
in Centre Square.” 

“ And yet,” said my father, with emphatic slowness, 
li he would have done his duty as he saw it.” 

“ And profited by it also,” said I, savagely. 
u There is neither charity nor yet common sense 
in thy words, Hugh. If thou art to abide here, see 
that thy ways conform to the sobriety and decency 
of Friends. I will have no cards nor hard drinking.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 391 


“ But good heavens! father, when have I ever 
done these things here, or indeed anywhere, for 
years ? ” 

His fingers were again playing on the arms of Mr. 
Penn’s great chair, and I made haste to put an end 
to this bewildering talk. 

“ I will try,” I said, “ to live in such a way as shall 
not offend. Lucy is in the stable, and I will take my 
old room. My Aunt Gainor is to be in town to- 
morrow.” 

“ I shall be pleased to see her.” 

“And how is the business, father?” I said. 
“ There are no ships at sea, I hope. The privateers 
are busy, and if any goods be found that may have 
been for use of the king’s people, we might have to 
regret a loss.” 

“ I might,” he returned sharply. “ I am still able 
to conduct my own ventures.” 

“ Of course, sir,” I said hastily, wondering where 
I could find any subject which was free from power 
to annoy him. Then I rose, saying, “There is an 
early drill. I shall have to be on hand to receive 
General Arnold. I shall not be back to breakfast. 
Good-night.” 

“Farewell,” he said. And I went upstairs with 
more food for thought than was to my liking. I had 
hoped for a brief season of rest and peace, and here 
was whatever small place I held in my father’s heart 
filled by my cousin. 

When, not long after, for mere comfort, I had occa- 
sion to speak to the great Dr. Rush of my father, he 


392 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


said that when the brain became enfeebled men were 
apt to assign to one man acts done by another, and 
that this did explain the latter part of my father’s talk 
about cards and drinking. Also he said that with 
defect of memory came more or less incapacity to 
reason, since for that a man must be able to assemble 
past events and review them in his memory. Indeed, 
he added, certain failures of remembrance might 
even permit a good man to do apparent wrong, which 
seemed to me less clear. The good doctor helped me 
much, for I was confused and hurt, seeing no remedy 
in anything I could do or say. 

I lit the candles in my old room and looked about 
me. My cousin had, it appeared, taken up his abode 
in my own chamber, and this put me out singularly ; 
I could hardly have said why. The room was in the 
utmost confusion. Only that morning Arthur Wynne 
had left it. Man}^ of the lazier officers had overslept 
themselves, as I have said, and came near to being 
quite left behind. Lord Cosmo Gordon, in fact, made 
his escape in a skiff just before we entered. 

The bed was still not made up, which showed me 
how careless our slaves must have become. The floor 
was littered with torn paper, and in a drawer, forgot 
in Arthur’s hurry, were many bills, paid and unpaid, 
some of which were odd enough ; also many notes, 
tickets for the Mischianza, theatre-bills, portions of 
plays,— my cousin was an admirable actor in light 
parts,— and a note or two in Darthea’s neat writing. 
I had no hesitation in putting them all on the hearth. 

There was nothing in me to make me take advan- 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 393 


tage of what I found. I kept the Mischianza tickets, 
and that was all, I have them yet. On the table 
were Fox’s “ Apology,” “ A Sweet Discourse to 
Friends,” by William Penn, and the famous “ Book 
of Sufferings.” In the latter was thrust a small, thin 
betting-tablet, such as many gentlemen then carried. 
Here were some queer records of bets more curious 
than reputable. I recall but two : “ Mr. Harcourt 
bets Mr. Wynne five pounds that Miss A. will wear 
red stockings at the play on May 12th. Won, A. 
Wynne. They were blue, and so was the lady.” “ A. 
W. bets Mr. von Speiser ten pounds that he will 
drink four quarts of Madeira before Mr. von S. can 
drink two ; Major de Lancey to measure the wine. 
Lost, A. W. The Dutch pig was too much for me.” 

Wondering what Darthea or my father would think 
of these follies, I tossed the books and the betting- 
tablet on the pile of bills on the hearth. I have since 
then been shown in London by General Burgoyne 
the betting-book at Brooks’s Club. There are to be 
seen the records of still more singular bets, some 
quite abominable ; but such were the manners of the 
day. My cousin, as to this, w^as like the rest. 

In a closet were cast-off garments and riding-boots. 
I sent for Tom, and bade him do with these as he 
liked; then I set fire to the papers on the hearth, 
ordered the room put in order, and after a pipe in 
the orchard went to bed. 


XXII 


Y father was out when, the next day at 
noon, I found in the counting-house our 
old clerk, Thomas Mason. He, like my- 
self, had seen with distress my father’s 
condition ; but he told me, to my surprise, 
that he was still acute and competent in most matters 
of business. 

“Look at this, Mr. Hugh,” he said, showing me 
careful entries in the day-book, in my father’s hand, 
of nearly one thousand pounds lent to my Cousin 
Arthur. My father had spoken to Mason of an in- 
tention to alter his will. He never did alter it, but, 
believing me dead, tore it up and made no new one. 
None of our ships were at sea. Most of them had 
been sold as transports to the British quartermaster. 
My sole comfort at home was in the absence of Arthur 
Wynne, and in the fact that Darthea was in the city, 
as I learned from Mason. 

After this I went at once to see my aunt, but could 
give her only a few minutes, as I knew McLane 
would need my knowledge of the neighbourhood. 
In fact, I was busy for two days looking after the 
Tory bands who were plundering farms to west of 
the city. 



394 



Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 395 


As soon as possible I went again to see my Aunt 
Gainor. The good old lady was lamenting her scanty 
toilet, and the dirt in which the Hessians had left 
her house. “ I have drunk no tea since Lexington,” 
she said, “ and I have bought no gowns. My gowns, 
sir, are on the backs of our poor soldiers. I am not 
fit to be seen beside that minx Darthea. And how 
is Jack? The Ferguson woman has been here. I 
hate her, but she has all the news. If one has no 
gowns, it is at least a comfort to hear gossip. I told 
her so, but Lord ! the woman does not care a rap if 
you do but let her talk. She says Joseph Warder 
is smit with Darthea’s aunt, and what a fine courtship 
that will be ! Old Duche, our preacher, is gone away 
with Sir William; and now we have my beautiful 
young man, Mr. White, at Christ Church.” 

So the dear lady rattled on, her great form mov- 
ing among her battered furniture, and her clear voice, 
not without fine tones, rising and falling, until at 
last she dropped into a chair, and would hear all my 
adventures. It was dangerous to wait long when 
my aunt invited replies, and before I had time to 
think she began anew to tell me that Darthea had 
come at once to see her, and of how respectful she 
was. At this I encouraged my aunt, which was 
rarely needed, and then heard further that Mrs. 
Peniston would remain in town, perhaps because of 
Friend Joseph Warder. 

Darthea had also spoken eagerly of Arthur. His 
people in Wales had written to her : Arthur's father 
and his brother, who was so ill. “ I could not but 


396 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 


thank her,” said my aunt, “ for that brave visit to the 
jail, as to which she might have written to me. I told 
her as much, but she said I was a Whig, and outside 
the lines, and she did not wdsh to get her aunt into 
trouble. ‘Stuff !’ said I; ‘how came it Mr. Arthur 
never knew Hugh ? ’ ‘ How could he ? You should 

have seen him/ says my little lady, ‘ and even after 
he was well. I did not know him, and how should 
Mr. Wynne ? 7 

“ But,” said my aunt, “ I made such little additions 
to his tale as I dared, but not all I wanted to. I 
promise you they set my miss to thinking, for she 
got very red and said it was sheer nonsense. She 
would ask you herself. She had a pretty picture to 
show me of Wyncote, and the present man was to be 
made a baronet. Can a good girl be captured by 
such things ? But the man has some charm, Hugh. 
These black men”— so we called those of dark com- 
plexion— “are always dangerous, and this special 
devil has a tongue, and can use it well.” 

I listened to my aunt, but said little. What chance 
had I to make Darthea credit me ? She had a girPs 
desire for the court and kings’ houses and rank; 
or was this only one Darthea ? Could that other be 
made to listen to a plain lieutenant in a rebel army ? 
Perhaps I had better go back and get knocked on 
the head. W ould she love me the better for proving 
Arthur a rascal ? 

I said as much to Aunt Gainor. At this she got 
up, crying, “ Good heavens ! there is a Hessian cock- 
roach ! They are twice as big as they were. What 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 397 

a fool you are ! The girl is beginning fco be in doubt. 
I am sorry you have driven the man away. A pretty 
tale your mother had in French of her dear Midi, 
of the man who would have Love see, and pulled 
the kerchief off his eyes, whereon the boy’s wings 
tumbled off, and he sat down and cried because he 
could no longer fly. When a scamp loves a good 
girl, let him thank the devil that love is blind.” 

Here was Aunt Gainor sentimental, and clever too. 
I shook my head sadly, being, as a man should be, 
humble-minded as to women. She said next she 
would see my father at once, and I must come at 
eight and bring Mr. McLane. Darthea would be with 
her, and a friend or two. 

I went, but this time I did not bring my command- 
ing officer. Miss Peniston was late. In all her life 
she was never punctual, nor could she be. While 
we waited my aunt went on to tell me that Darthea 
wished me to know how glad Mr. Wynne was I had 
escaped at the Mischianza. An impulse of a soldier’s 
duty had made him seize upon me, and he had been 
happy in the accident which aided my escape. I had 
done a brave thing to venture into the city, and she 
and Mr. Wynne felt strongly what a calamity my 
capture would have been. Darthea’s friends were 
his friends. “And he is jealous too,” says my lady, 
“of De Lancey, and Montresor— and— of Mr. Hugh 
Wynne.” 

You must have known Mistress Wynne to com- 
prehend what scorn she put into poor Darthea’s sad 
excuses, and her explanations of what could not be 


398 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


explained. I felt sorry for the little lady who was 
absent and was getting such small mercy. It was 
vain to try to stop my annt. That no man and few 
women could do. I did at last contrive to learn that 
she had said no more of the visit of Arthur to the 
jail than that I did not seem satisfied. 

I had rather my aunt should have let my luckless 
love-affair alone. I had been in a way to tell her of 
it, but now I wanted no interference. I feared to 
talk even to Jack Warder of my dear Darthea. That 
he saw through me and her I have, after many years, 
come to know, as these pages must have shown. If 
to speak of her to this delicate-minded friend was 
not at this time to my taste, you may rest assured I 
liked not my aunt’s queer way of treating the matter 
as she would have done a hand at piquet. She ended 
this wandering talk with her usual shrewd bits of 
advice, asking me, as she stopped short in her walk, 
“ Have you a little sense left ? ” 

“ I hope so.” 

“ Then get your head to help that idiot your heart. 
Leave Darthea to herself. Ride with Miss Chew or 
Miss Redman. Women are like children. Let them 
alone, and by and by they will sidle up to you for 
notice.” 

When the town was in Sir William Howe’s hands, 
my aunt had rejected all her Tory, and even her 
neutral, friends. But now that Sir Henry Clinton 
was flying across the J erseys, harassed by militia, and 
our general was on the way to cross the Delaware 
after them, things were different. Her Tory friends 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 399 


might come to see her if they pleased. Most of these 
dames came gladly, liking my aunt, and having 
always had of her much generous kindness. Bessy 
Ferguson was cross, and Mistress Wynne had been 
forced to visit her first. What manner of peace was 
made I did not hear; but no one else was a match 
at piquet for my Aunt Gainor, and doubtless this 
helped to reconcile the lady. I grieve that no his- 
torian has recorded their interview. 

When I wrote of it to Jack, he was much delighted, 
and just before the fight at Monmouth wrote me a 
laughing letter, all about what my aunt and Mrs. 
Ferguson must have said on this occasion. As he 
knew no word of it, I could never see how he was 
able to imagine it. Once, later, when their war broke 
out anew, my aunt told me all about her former 
encounter ; and so much like was it to what Jack had 
writ that I laughed outright. My aunt said there 
was nothing to grin at. But a one-sided laugh is 
ever the merrier. I could not always tell what Mis- 
tress Wynne would do, and never what she would 
say ; but Jack could. He should have writ books, 
but he never did. 

I had heard my aunt’s wail over her wardrobe, and 
was struck dumb at her appearance when, in the 
evening, I returned as she desired. The gods and 
the china dragons were out, and, the Hessian devils 
having been driven forth, the mansion had been 
swept and garnished, the rugs were down, and the 
floor was dangerously polished. 

My Aunt Gainor was in a brocade which she told 


400 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

me was flowered beautiful with colours very lively. 
I thought they were. As to the rest of her toilet, I 
am at a loss for words. The overskirt was lute- 
string silk, I was told. The hoops were vast 5 the 
dress cut square, with a “ modesty-f euce ” of stiff 
lace. A huge high cap “with wings is the last 
thing/' cried the lady, turning round to be seen, 
and well pleased at my admiration. She was an 
immense and an amazing figure. I did wonder, so 
big she was, where she meant to put the other women 
—and I said as much. 

“ Here is one,” she whispered, “ who will like your 
uniform more than will the rest. Mr. Wynne of the 
army, my nephew, Miss Morris. And how is Mr. 
Gouverneur Morris ? ” 

We fell to talking, but when others came and 
were presented or named by me to the Whig lady, 
my young woman said, “ Are there none but Tories ? ” 
And she was short, I thought, with Mrs. Ferguson, 
who came in high good humour and a gown of 
Venice silk. I saw Aunt Gainor glance at her gold- 
laced handkerchief. 

I was glad to see them all. Very soon the rooms 
were well filled, and here were Hr. Rush and Charles 
Thomson, the secretary of Congress, who stayed but 
a little while, leaving the great doctor to growl over 
the war with Miss Morris, and to tell her how ill read 
was our great chief, and how he could not spell, and 
had to have his letters writ for him to copy like a boy. 
Mr. Adams had said as much. I ventured to remark, 
having by this time come to understand our doctor, 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 401 


that we knew better in camp, and that at least our 
chief understood the art of war. The doctor was 
not of this opinion, and considered General Gates 
the greater man. 

Then I left them to welcome Mrs. Chew and the 
lovely Margaret, and Miss Shippen, and last my Dar- 
thea with her aunt, who was as thin as a book-marker. 

“Aunt,” I said slyly, “ what is this ? Tories again ? ” 

“ Be quiet, child ! You have pulled their teeth. 
You will see they are meek enough. The dog on top 
can always forgive, and I must have my cards. Be- 
have yourself ! How handsome you are ! Here they 
come.” And now there was a cross-fire of welcomes 
and “ We have missed you so much,” and “ How well 
you look ! ” and fine sweep of curtseys, very pretty 
and refreshing to a war-worn veteran. 

I bent to kiss Mrs. Shippers hand. Mrs. Fer- 
guson tapped me on the arm with her fan, whispering 
I was grown past the kissing-age, at which I cried 
that would never be. I took Darthea’s little hand 
with a formal word or two, and, biding my time, sat 
down to talk with the two Margarets, whom folks 
, called Peggy, although both were like stately lilies, 
and the pet name had no kind of fitness. 

The ombre-tables were set out and ready, and it 
was all gay and merry, and as if there might never 
have been war, either civil or social. “It is all as 
meek as doves’ milk,” whispered Mistress Wynne over 
my shoulder. “ Gossip and cards against the world 
for peacemakers, eh, Hugh?” Assuredly here was 
a beautiful truce, and all the world amiable. 


402 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


The powdered heads wagged; brocade and silk 
rustled ; the counters rattled. Fans huge as sails set 
little breezes going; there was wise neutrality of 
speech, King Ombre being on the throne and every- 
body happy. 

Meanwhile I set my young women laughing with 
an account of how a Quaker looked in on them 
through the window at the redcoat ball, but of the 
incident in the garden I said nothing, nor was it 
known beyond those immediately concerned. The 
two Margarets were curious to hear what Mr. Wash- 
ington looked like, and one miss would know if Mr. 
Arnold was a dark man, hearing with the delight of 
girls how his Excellency gave dinners in camp and 
sat on one side, with Mr. Hamilton or Mr. Tilghman 
at the top, and for diet potatoes and salt herring, 
with beef when it was to be had, and neither plates 
nor spoons nor knives and forks for all, so that we 
had to borrow, and eat by turns. 

Miss Morris, just come to town with good Whig 
opinions, was uneasy in this society, and said, “ We 
shall have enough of everything when we catch Sir 
Henry Clinton.” In a minute there would have been 
more war had not my aunt risen, and the party 
turned to drink chocolate and eat cakes. 

After a world of little gossip they settled their 
debts and went away, all but Mrs. Peniston and her 
niece, my aunt declaring that she wanted the elder 
lady’s advice about the proper mode to cool black- 
berry jam. For this sage purpose the shadow-like 
form of Darthea’s aunt in gray silk went out under 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 403 


cover of my aunt’s large figure, and Darthea and I 
were left alone. 

How pretty she was in fair white muslin with long 
gloves, a red rosebud in each sleeve, and only a trace 
of powder on her hair, smiling, and above all women 
graceful ! She had seemed older when we met in 
the Provostry, and now to-day was slim and girl- 
like. I do not know where she got that trick of 
change, for in after-days, when in the fuller bloom 
of middle age, she still had a way of looking at times 
a gay and heedless young woman. She had now so 
innocent an air of being merely a sweet child that a 
kind of wonder possessed me, and I could not but look 
at her with a gaze perhaps too fixed to be mannerly. 

“ Darthea/’ I said, as we sat dowm, “ I owe my life 
to you twice— twice.” 

“No, no ! ” she cried. “What could I do but go 
to the jail ? Miss Wynne was away.” 

“You might have told my father,” I said. Why 
had she not? 

“ Mr. Wynne is grown older, and— I— There was 
no time to be lost, and Arthur was gone on duty for 
I know not what.” She was seeing and answering 
what further might have seemed strange to me. 
“Aunt Peniston was in a rage, I assure you. My 
aunt in a rage, Mr. Wynne, is a tempest in a thimble. 
All in a minute it boils over and puts out the little 
fire, and there is an end of it, and she asks what 
ought to be done. But now I am penitent, and have 
been scolded by Arthur. I will never, never do it 
any more. My aunt was right, sir.” 


404 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“I think you gave me more than life, Darthea, 
that day. And did you think I would take the 
parole ? ” 

“ Never for a moment ! ” she cried, with flashing 
eyes. “ I would have taken it, but I want my friends 
to be "wiser and stronger than I. I— I was proud of 
you in your misery and ragged blanket.” And with 
this the wonderful face went tender in a moment, 
and for my part I could only say, “ Darthea ! Dar- 
thea ! ” 

She was quick to see and to fear, and to avoid that 
which was ever on my lips when with her, and which 
she seemed to bid to live, and then to fly from as if 
she had never tempted me. 

“Ah, you were a droll figure, and Arthur could 
not but laugh when I described this hero in a blanket. 
It was then he told me more fully what before he 
had wrote, how in the hurry of an inspection he saw 
many men dying, and one so like you that he asked 
who it was, and was given another name ; but now 
he thought it must have been you, and that you had 
perhaps chosen, why he knew not, a name not your 
own, or you had been misnamed by the turnkey. It 
was little w r onder where men were dying in scores 
and changed past recognition ; it was no wonder, I 
say, he did not know you, Mr. Wynne. He was so 
sorry, for he says frankly that just because you and 
he are not very good friends— and why are you 
not?— he feels the worse about it. After he had 
scolded me well, and I made believe to cry, he said 
it was a noble and brave thing I had done, and he 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 405 


felt he should have been the one to do it had he 
known in season. He did really mean to get the 
parole, but then you ran away. And you do see, Mr. 
Wynne, that it was all a frightful mistake of Arthur’s, 
and he is— he must be sorry ? ” 

I would then and there have said to her that the 
man was a liar, and had meanly left me to die ; but 
it was my word against his, and Delaney had long 
ago gotten out and been exchanged and gone South, 
whither I knew not. As of course she must trust 
the man she loved, if I were to say I did not be- 
lieve him we should quarrel, and I should see her 
no more. 

“ My dear lady,” I said, keeping myself well in hand, 
“ the moral is that women should be sent to inspect 
the hungry, the ragged, the frozen, and the dying.” 

I saw she did not relish my answer. Was she 
herself quite satisfied? Did she want to be forti- 
fied in her love and trust by me, who had suffered ? 
A shadow of a frown was on her brow for a moment, 
and then she said, “ He will write to you. He prom- 
ised me he would write to you. And that dear old 
Sister of Charity ! — you must go and thank her at the 
little convent beside St. Joseph’s, in Willing’s Alley. 
You upset her as you went out in that rude fashion. 
Any but a Quaker would have stayed to apologise. 
Mr. Wynne was pleased I went to the jail with the 
dear sister. I believe the man really thought I 
would have gone alone. And I would; I would! 
When he told me it was clever and modest to get the 
sweet old papist for company, I swept him a mighty 


406 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


curtsey and thanked him and puzzled him, which is 
what men are for.” 

Sitting in the open how- window above the garden, 
my Darthea had most of the talk, while, when I 
dared no longer stare at her changeful face, I looked 
past her at the June roses swaying in the open win- 
dow-space. 

“Yes,” I laughed, “that is what men are for; but 
I have not done with you. I have also to thank you 
for my escape in the garden— you and Mr. Andre. 
He has a good memory, I fancy.” 

“ Oh, the fainting— yes,” said Miss Peniston, lightly. 
“ It was fortunate it came just then. And Mr. Wynne 
was glad enough of it later. He said it had saved 
him from the most horrible regret life could bring. 
If he had but had time to think— or had known—” 

“ Known what ? ” 

“No matter; I was in time to stop myself from 
saying a foolish thing. Let me give thanks for my 
escape. I have a restless tongue, and am apt to say 
what I do not mean ; and I do faint at nothing.” 

“ It was very opportune, my dear Miss Peniston.” 

“La! la! as aunt says, one would think I went 
faint on purpose, in place of its being the heat, and 
a providential accident, and very annoying too ; not 
a woman anywhere near me.” 

“ It saved a worthless life,” I said ; “ and but for it 
I should have had short shrift and the gallows on 
the Common.” 

“ Hush ! ” she returned. “ That is not pretty talk. 
Your cousin is unlucky, he says, to have had you fall 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 407 

in his way when it was impossible to escape from 
arresting you. He told me Mr. Andre assured him 
he could have done no other thing, and that it was 
vain to regret what was the inevitable duty of a 
soldier. I think Arthur was the most pleased of all 
when you got away. I must say you went very fast 
for so grave a Quaker.” 

“ And could you see ? ” said I, slyly. 

“No, of course not. How should I, and I in a 
dead faint ? Mr. Andre told me next day he thought 
that dreadful rebel, Mr. McLane, saved your life 
when he was mean enough, just in the middle of that 
beautiful ball, to set fire to something. At first we 
took it for the fireworks. But tell me about Miss 
Gainer’s girl-boy— our own dear Jack.” 

“He can still blush to beat Miss Franks, and he 
still believes me to be a great man, and— but you do 
not want to hear about battles.” 

“Do I not, indeed ! I should like to see Mr. Jack 
in a battle ; I cannot imagine him hurting a fly.” 

“The last I saw, at Germantown, of Jack, he was 
raging in a furious mob of redcoats, with no hat, 
and that sword my aunt presented cutting and par- 
rying. I gave him up for lost, but he never got a 
scratch. I like him best in camp with starving, 
half-naked men. I have seen him give his last loaf 
away. You should hear Mr. Hamilton— that is his 
Excellency’s aide— talk of Jack; how like a tender 
woman he was among men who were sick and starv- 
ing. Hamilton told me how once, when Jack said 
prayers beside a dying soldier and some fellow 


408 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


laughed,— men get hard in war,— our old Quaker 
friend Colonel Forest would have had the beast out 
and shot him, if the fool had not gone to Jack and 
said he was sorry. Every one loves the man, and 
no wonder.” 

“ He is fortunate in his friend, Mr. Wynne. Men 
do not often talk thus of one another. I have heard 
him say as much or more of you. Mistress Wynne 
says it is a love-affair. Are men’s friendships or 
women’s the best, I wonder?” I said that was a 
question beyond me, and went on to tell her that I 
should be in town but a few days, and must join mj 
regiment as soon as General Arnold could do with- 
out us, which I believed would be within a week. 

She was as serious as need be now, asking intelli- 
gent questions as to the movements of the armies 
and the chances of peace. I had to show her why 
we lost the fight at Germantown, and then explain 
that but for the fog we should have won it, which 
now I doubt. 

Mr. Andre had told her that it was because of our 
long rifles that the enemy lost so many officers, picked 
off out of range of musket, and did I think this was 
true ? It seemed to her unfair and like murder. 

I thought she might be thinking of my cousin’s 
chances, for here, after a pause, she rose suddenly 
and said it was late and that the strawberry jam must 
be cool, or the discussion over it hot, to keep Mrs. 
Peniston so long. My aunt would have had me stay 
for further talk, but I said I was tired, and went away 
home feeling that the day had been full enough for me. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 409 


A little later, one afternoon in this June, I found 
my aunt seated so deep in thought that I asked her 
the cause. 

u Presently,” she said. “ I have meant to tell you, 
but I have delayed ; I have delayed. Now you must 
know.” Here she rose and began to stride restlessly 
among the furniture, walking to and fro with appa- 
rent disregard of the china gods and Delft cows. She 
reminded me once more of my father in his better 
days. Her hands were clasped behind her, which is, 
I think, a rare attitude with women. Her large head, 
crowned with a great coil of gray hair which seemed 
to suit its massive build, was bent forward as if in 
thought. 

“ What is it, Aunt Gainor ? ” 

She did not pause in her walk or look up, and only 
motioned me to a seat, saying, “ Sit down. I must 
think j I must think.” 

It was unlike her. Generally, no matter how seri- 
ous the thing on her mind, she was apt to come at 
it through some trivial chat j but now her long ab- 
sence of speech troubled me. 

I sat at least ten minutes, and then, uneasy, said, 
“ Aunt Gainor, is it Darthea ? ” 

“ No, you fool ! ” And she went on her wandering 
way among the crackled gods. “Now I will talk, 
Hugh, and do not interrupt me. You always do ;” 
but, as Jack Warder says, no one ever did success- 
fully interrupt Miss Wynne except Miss Wynne. 

She sat down, crossed one leg over the other, as 
men do when alone with men, and went on, as I re* 


410 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


call it, to this effect, and quite in her ordinary man- 
ner : “ When the British were still here, late in May 
I had a note through the lines from Mr. Warder as 
to the confusion in my house, and some other matters. 
He got for me a pass to come in and attend to these 
things. I stayed three days with Mrs. Peniston and 
Darthea. While here the second day I was bid to 
sup at Parson Duche’s, and though I hated the lot of 
them, I had had no news nor so much as a game of 
cards for an age, and so I went. Now don’t grin 
at me. 

“When I was to leave no coach came, as I had 
ordered, and no chair, either. There was Mrs. Fer- 
guson had set up a chaise. She must offer me to be 
set down at home. I said my two legs were as good 
as her horses’, and one of them— I mean of hers— 
has a fine spavin ; as to Mrs. Mischief’s own legs, they 
are so thin her garters will not stay above her ankles. 

“I walked from Third street over Society Hill, j 
thinking to see your father, and to find a big stick 
for company across the bridges.” 

She was given to going at night where she had 
need to go, with a great stick for privateersmen, the 
vagabond, drunken Hessians, and other street pirates. 

I can see her now, shod with goloe-shoes against mud 
or snow, with her manlike walk and independent air, : 
quite too formidable to suggest attack. 

“I went in at the back way,” she continued} “not 
a servant about but Tom, sound asleep at the kitchen 
fire. I went by him, and from the hall saw your 
father, also in deep slumber in his arm-chair. I got 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 41 1 


me a candle and went upstairs to look how things 
were. The house was in vile disorder, and dirty past 
belief. As to your own chamber, where that scamp 
Arthur slept, it was— well, no matter. 

“ As I went downstairs and into the back dining- 
room I heard the latch of the hall door rattle. 1 Is 
it Arthur ? ’ thought I $ and of no mind to see him, I 
sat down and put out my candle, meaning to wait till 
he was come in, and then to slip out the back way. 
The next moment I heard Arthur’s voice and your 
father’s. Both doors into the front room were wide 
open, and down I sat quietly, with a good mind to 
hear. It is well I did. I suppose you would have 
marched in and said, 1 Take care how you talk j I am 
listening.’ Very fine, sir. But this was an enemy. 
You lie, cheat, spy, steal, and murder in war. How 
was I worse than you ? ” 

“ But, dear Aunt Gainor— ” 

“ Don’t interrupt me, sir. I sat still as a mouse.” 
My aunt as a mouse tickled my fancy. There may 
be such in my friend Mr. Swift’s Brobdingnag. 

“ I listened. Master Wynne is pleasant, and has 
had a trifle too much of Mr. Somebody’s Madeira. 
He is affectionate, and your father sits up, and, as 
Dr. Rush tells me, is clear of head after his sleep, 
or at least for a time. 

“My gentleman says, ‘I may have to leave you 
soon, my dear cousin. I want to talk to you a little. 
Is there any one in the back room ? ’ As there is no 
one, he goes on, and asks his cousin to tell him about 
+ he title to Wyncote as he had promised. His brother 


412 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


was ill and uneasy, and it was all they had, and it 
was a poor thing after all. Yonr father roused up, 
and seemed to me to fully understand all that fol- 
lowed. He said how fond he was of Arthur, and 
how much he wished it was he who was to have the 
old place. Arthur replied that it was only in his 
father's interest he spoke. 

“Then they talked on, and the amount of it was 
pretty much this. How many lies Arthur got into the 
talk the Lord— or the devil— knows! This was 
what I gathered: Your grandfather Hugh, under 
stress of circumstances, as you know, was let out of 
Shrewsbury jail with some understanding that he was 
to sell his estate to his brother, who had no scruples 
as to tithes, and to go away to Pennsylvania. This 
I knew, but it seems that this brother William was 
a Wynne of the best, and, as is supposed, sold back 
the estate privately to Hugh for a trifle, so that at 
any time the elder brother could reclaim his home. 
What became of the second deed thus made was 
what Arthur wanted to know. 

“Your father must have it somewhere, Hugh. 
Now says Arthur, ‘We are poor, cousin; the place 
is heavily encumbered; some coal has been found. 
It is desirable to sell parts of the estate ; how hon- 
estly can my father make a title ? 7 Your great-uncle 
William died, as we know, Hugh, and the next bro- 
ther's son, who was Owen and is Arthur's father, 
had a long minority. When he got the place, being 
come of age, some memoranda of the transaction 
turned up. It was not a rare one in older Round 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 413 

head days. Nothing was done, and time ran on. Now 
the occupant is getting on in years, and as his sec- 
ond son Arthur is ordered hither on service, it was 
thought as well that he should make inquiry. The 
older squires had some vague tradition about it. It 
was become worth while, as I inferred, to clear the 
business, or at need to effect a compromise. Half 
of this I heard, and the rest I got by thinking it over. 
Am I plain, Hugh?” She was, as usual. “Your 
father surprised me. He spoke out in his old delib- 
erate way. He said the deed— some such deed— was 
among his father’s papers ; he had seen it long ago. 
He did not want the place. He was old and had 
enough, and it should be settled to Master Arthur’s 
liking. 

“ Your cousin then said some few words about you. 
I did not hear what, but your father at once broke 
out in a fierce voice, and cried , 1 It is too true ! 1 Well, 
Hugh,” she went on, “it is of no. use to make things 
worse between you.” 

“No,” I said; “do not tell me. Was that all?” 

“Not quite. Master Arthur is to have the deed 
if ever it be found, and with your father’s and your 
grandfather’s methodical ways, that is pretty sure to 
happen.” 

“I do not care much, Aunt Gainor, except that—” 

“I know,” she cried; “anybody else might have 
it, but not Arthur.” 

“Yes; unless Darthea — ” 

“ I understand, sir ; and now I see it all. The elder 
brother will die. The father is old, the estate valiv 


414 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

able, and this lying scamp with his winning ways 
will be master of Wyncote, and with a clear title if 
your father is able to bring it about. He can, Hugh, 
unless—” 

“ What, aunt ? ” 

“ Unless you intervene on account of my brother’s 
mental state.” 

“ That I will never do ! Never ! ” 
u Then you will lose it.” 

“ Yes ; it must go. I care but little, aunt.” 

“ But I do, sir. You are Wynne of Wyncote.” 

I smiled, and made no reply. 

“ The man stayed awhile longer, but your father 
after that soon talked at random, and addressed 
Arthur as Mr. Montresor. I doubt if he remembered 
a word of it the day after. When he left and went 
upstairs your father fell into sleep again. I went 
away home alone, and the day after to the Hill Farm.” 

“ It is a strange story,” I said. “ And did he get 
the deed before the army left ? ” 

My aunt thought not. “ Mason says all the papers 
are at the counting-house, and that up to this time 
your father has made no special search. It was but 
two weeks or less before they left town.” 

It was a simple way to trap an over-cunning man, 
and it much amused me, who did not take the deed 
and estate matter to heart as did my aunt. When 
she said, “We must find it,” I could but say that it 
was my father’s business, and could wait ; so far, at 
least, as I was concerned, I would do nothing. Of 
course I told it all to Jack when next we met. 


XXIII 


N Sunday, the 21st of June, while our 
chief was crossing into the Jerseys, I was 
hearing at Christ Church, for the first 
time, the words of prayer in which Wil- 
liam White commended Congress and our 
their great leader to the protecting mercy 
of Almighty God. General Arnold was already busy 
with the great household and equipage which soon 
did so much to involve him in temptations growing 
out of his fondness for display. The militia were 
unwilling to act as a body-guard, or to stand sen- 
tries beside the great lamp-posts at his door. Nor 
did McLane and the rest of us fancy the social and 
guard duties which the general exacted ; but we had 
to obey orders, and were likely, I feared, to remain 
long in this ungrateful service. 

On June 30 we heard of the glorious battle at 
Monmouth, and with surprise of General Lee’s dis- 
grace. On the 3d of July came Jack with a bayonet- 
thrust in his right shoulder and a nasty cut over 
the left temple. He was able to be afoot, but was 
quite unfit for service. I heard from him of the 
splendid courage and judgment shown by his Excel- 
lency, and of the profane and terrible language he 

4V5 



armies and 



4i 6 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 


had used to that traitor Lee. Jack said: “I was in 
the midst of a lot of scared men, with a leader who 
wanted only to get away. And then the general 
rode up, and all was changed. I think, Hugh, he 
was like an angry god of war. I should have died 
of the things he said to Mr. Lee.” 

When, long after this, in July, ’79, his Excellency 
issued that severe order about swearing, how it was 
against all religion, decency, and order, Jack was 
much amused. Like the army in Flanders, our own 
army solaced their empty stomachs with much bad 
language. But, as Jack observed, “ There is a time 
for everything ; Mr. Lee did catch it hot.” 

McLane soon left us, glad to get away. Had he 
stayed much longer there would have been one 
more sad moth in the pretty net into which fell all 
who were long in the company of our fatal Darthea. 
I too applied for active duty, but some influence, 
probably that of General Arnold, came in the way 
and kept me in the city. 

Very soon, to my pleasure, I received a letter 
from Mr. Hamilton, inclosing my commission as 
captain in the Third Regiment of the Pennsylvania 
line, and with it, not to my pleasure, an order to re- 
cruit in and near the city. Rather later the general 
asked me, as I was but little occupied, to act as an 
extra aide on his staff, a position which might have 
been my ruin, as I shall by and by relate. 

Jack’s hurts turning out worse than was antici- 
pated, he was of no use in camp, and remained at home 
to be petted and fussed over by my Aunt Gamor. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 417 


After a month or two he was able to go about with 
his arm in a sling, and to be greatly noticed by the 
Whig women. Very soon he was caught, like me, 
in a ceaseless round of all manner of gaieties. He 
shortly grew weary of it, and fell back on his books 
and the society of the many who loved him— above 
all, that of my aunt and Darthea. For me there was 
no escape, as my own dissipations were chiefly those 
of official duty, and in company with my chief. 

Congress was still in session, but from it were miss- 
ing Adams, Franklin, Henry, Jay, and Rutledge, who 
were elsewhere filling posts of importance. It had 
no fully recognised powers, and the want of more 
distinct union was beginning to be sadly felt. Had 
not the ruin of the Conway cabal and the profound 
trust of the people lifted Washington into a position 
of authority, the fears and predictions of men like 
my friend Wilson would have been fully justified. 
Intrigues, ruinous methods of finance, appointments 
given to untried foreign officers who w r ere mere ad- 
venturers— all these and baser influences were work- 
ing toward the ruin of our cause. 

Our own city went wild that winter. The Tories 
were sharply dealt with at first, but. as many of 
them were favoured by the general in command, 
they soon came back in mischievous numbers. The 
more moderate neutrals opened their doors to all 
parties. The general began to be at ease in the 
homes of the proprietary set, and, buying the great 
house of Mount Pleasant, made court to the lovely 
Margaret Shippen, and was foremost in a display of 


27 


4i 8 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


excess and luxury such as annoyed and troubled 
those who saw him hand and glove with the Tory 
gentlemen, and extravagant beyond anything hith- 
erto seen in the quiet old city of Penn. 

At this time the Congress often sat with but a 
dozen members. It was no longer the dignified body 
of seventy-six. Officers came and went. Men like 
Robert Morris and Dr. Rush shook their heads. 
Clinton lay in New York, watched by Washington, 
and in the South there was disaster after disaster, 
while even our best men wearied of the war, and 
asked anxiously how it was to end. 

Recruiting in the face of such a state of things 
was slow indeed. I had little to do but wait on the 
general, read to my aunt, ride with her and Darthea, 
or shoot ducks with Jack when weather permitted j 
and so the long winter wore on. 

With Darthea I restrained my useless passion, and 
contented myself with knowing that we were day by 
day becoming closer friends. If Arthur wrote to her 
or not, I could not tell. She avoided mentioning 
him, and I asked no questions. 

I shall let Jack’s diary tell— at this time it was 
very full— what chanced in midwinter. Alas, my 
dear Jack ! 

“ It has,” he wrote, “ been a season of foolish dis- 
sipation. While the army suffers for everything, 
these fools are dancing and gambling, and General 

A the worst of all, which seems a pity in so good 

a soldier. He is doing us a mighty harm. 

u To-day has been for me a sad one. I shall think 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 419 


ever of my folly with remorse. I set it down as a 
lesson to be read. We had a great sleighing-frolic 
to Cliveden. There were all the Tories, and few 
else— the general driving Peggy Shippen, and I Dar- 
thea. Mistress Wynne would have none of it. ‘ We 
were no worse off under Howe/ she says ; ' Mr. Arnold 
has no sense and no judgment/ It is true, I fear. 
Mrs. Peniston, half froze, went along in our old 
sleigh. We drove up to the stone steps of Cliveden 
about seven at night— a fine moonlight, so that the 
stone vases on the roof, crowned with their carved 
pineapples, stood out against the sky. The windows 
were all aglow, and neither doors nor shutters were 
as yet fully repaired. 

“We had a warm welcome, and stood about the 
ample fires while the ladies went merrily upstairs 
to leave their cloaks. I looked about me curi- 
ously, for there were dozens of bullet-marks on the 
plaster and the woodwork. It had been a gallant 
defence, and cleverly contrived. Soon came down 
the stairs a bevy of laughing girls to look, with 
hushed voices, at the blood-stains on the floor and the 
dents the muskets had made. They did think to 
tease me by praising Colonel Musgrave, who had 
commanded the British ; but I, not to be outdone, 
declared him the bravest man alive. Darthea smiled, 
but said nothing, and for that I loved her better than 
ever. 

“ Then we fell to chatting, and presently she said, 
< Madam Chew, Mr. Warder is to show me where the 
troops lay, and Mr. Wayne’s brigade ; and who will 


420 Hugh Wynne: free Quaker 


come too ? ’ There were volunteers, but once outside 
they found it cold, and Darthea, saying, £ We shall 
be gone but a minute,’ walked with me around the 
stone outbuilding to northwest. She was very 
thoughtful and quiet this night, looking as sweet as 
ever a woman could in a gray fur coat against the 
moon-lit drifts of snow. ‘ Over there,’ I said, ‘ across 
the road, were our poor little four-pounders; and be- 
yond yonder wall our chief held a brief council of 
war ; and just there in the garden lay my own men 
and Hugh, and some Maryland troops, among the 
box where we used to play hide-and-find.’ 

“ On this Darthea said, 1 Let me see the place,’ and 
we walked down the garden, a gentle excitement 
showing in her ways and talk; and I— ah me, that 
night ! 

“ 1 I must see,’ she said, 1 where the dead lie ; near 
the garden wall, is it ? ’ 

“ ‘Here,’ said I— ‘ours and theirs.’ 

“ ‘ In the peace which is past understanding,’ said 
Darthea. Then, deep in thought, she turned from 
the house and into the woods a little beyond, not 
saying a word. Indeed, not a sound was to be heard, 
except the creak and craunch of the dry snow under 
our feet. A few paces farther we came to the sum- 
mer-house, set on circular stone steps, and big enough 
to dine in. There she stood, saying, ‘I cannot go 
back yet ; oh, those still, still dead ! Don’t speak to 
me— not for a little while.’ She stayed thus, looking 
up at the great white moon, while I stood by, and 
none other near. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 421 


<U 1 am better now, Jack, and you will not tell of 
how foolish I was— but— ’ 

“ I said there was some sweet folly, if she liked 
so to call it, which was better than wisdom. And 
then how it was I know not, nor ever shall. I felt 
myself flush and tremble. It is my foolish way when 
in danger, being by nature timid, and forced to exer- 
cise rule over myself at such seasons. 

“She said, ‘What is it, Jack?’ for so she often 
called me when we were alone, although Hugh was 
Mr. Wynne. The ways of women are strange. 

“ I could not help it, and yet I knew Hugh loved 
her. I knew also that she was surely to marry Mr. 
Arthur Wynne. I was wrong, but, God help us ! 
who is not wrong at times ? I said : ‘ Darthea, I love 
you. If it were to be Hugh I should never say so.’ 
I cared nothing about the other man ; he hates my 
Hugh. 

“ ‘ Oh, Jack, Jack ! you hurt me ! ’ Never was any- 
thing so sweet and tender. Her great eyes— like 
Madam Wynne’s that were— filled and ran over. 
‘Oh, Jack ! ’ she cried, ‘must I hurt you too, and is it 
my fault ? Oh, my dear Jack, whom I love and 
honour, I can’t love you this way. I can’t— I can’t. 
And I am sorry. I must marry Arthur Wynne ; I 
have promised. You men think we women give our 
hearts lightly, and take them again, as if they were 
mere counters ; and I am troubled, Jack, and no one 
knows it. I must not talk of that. I wish you would 
all go away. I can’t marry you all.’ And she began 
to be agitated, and to laugh in a way that seemed to 


422 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


me quite strange and out of place ; but then I know 
little about women. 

“I could but say : 1 Forgive me; I have hurt you 
whom I love. I will never do it more— never. But, 
dear Darthea, you will let me love you, because I can- 
not help it, and this will all be as if it had neyer been. 
To hurt you— to hurt you of all the world ! I had 
no right to ask you.’ 

“ ‘ Don’t/ she said, with a great sob, which seemed 
to break my heart. 

“‘Darthea/ I said— ‘Darthea, do not marry that 
man ! He is cruel ; he is hard ; he does not love you 
as my Hugh loves you.’ 

“ ‘ Sir/ she said, with such sudden dignity that I 
was overcome, and fell back a pace, ‘ I am promised ; 
let that suffice. It is cold ; let us go in. It is cold— 
it is cold ! ’ 

“I had never seen her like this. I said: ‘ Cer- 
tainly ; I should not have kept you. I was thought- 
less.’ And as she said nothing in reply, I went after 
her, having said my say as I never intended, and 
more than was perhaps wise. At the door she turned 
about, and, facing me, said abruptly, with her dear 
face all of a flush : ‘ Do not let this trouble you. I 
am not good enough to make it worth while. I have 
been a foolish girl, discontented with our simple 
ways, wanting what I have not. I have cried for 
toys, and have got them, and now I don’t care for 
them; but I have promised. Do you hear, sir? I 
have promised— I have promised.’ 

“ She stayed for no answer, but went in. It seemed 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 423 


to me a singular speech, and to mean more than was 
said. The repeating of one phrase over and over 
appeared meant to reinforce a doubtful purpose. I 
think she cares little for Mr. Arthur Wynne, but 
who can say ? Darthea is full of surprises. 

“ Can it be that she loves Hugh and knows it not,, 
or that she has such a strong sense of honour that it 
is hard for her to break her word ? She does not be- 
lieve this man to be bad. That is sure. If ever I 
can make her see him as I see him, he will hold her 
not an hour. I shall disturb her life no more. Had 
she taken me to-day, I know not what would have 
come of it. I am not strong of will, like Hugh. 
God knows best. I will ask no more.” 

I was an old man when I, Hugh Wynne, read 
these pages, and I am not ashamed to say they cost 
me some tears. 

So far as I remember, neither Jack nor Darthea 
betrayed by their manner what I learned naught of 
for so many years. Neither did my Aunt Gainor’s 
shrewdness get any hint of what passed at Cliveden. 
I recall, however, that Jack became more and more 
eager to rejoin his regiment, and this he did some 
two weeks later. 

My father’s condition was such as at times to 
alarm me, and at last I proposed to him to see Dr. 
Rush. To my surprise, he consented. I say to my 
surprise, for he had a vast distrust of doctors, and, 
to tell the truth, had never needed their help. The 
day after the doctor’s visit I saw our great physician, 
whom now all the world has learned to revere, and 


424 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


who was ever more wise in matters of medicine than 
in matters of state. 

He told me that my father was beginning to have 
some failure of brain because of his arteries being 
older than the rest of him, which I did not quite com- 
prehend. He had, he said, losses of memory which 
were not constant. Especially was he affected with 
forgetfulness as to people, and for a time mistook 
them, so that for a while he had taken Dr. Rush for 
his old clerk Mason. The doctor said it was more 
common to lack remembrance of places. In my 
father's condition he might take one man for an- 
other, and to-morrow be as clear as to his acquain- 
tance as ever he had been ; but that as to business, 
as was in such cases rare, his mind continued to be 
lucid, except at times, when his memory would sud- 
denly fail him for a few minutes. The doctor saw 
no remedy for his condition, and I mention it only 
because my father's varying peculiarities came in a 
measure to affect me and others in a way of which 
I shall have occasion to speak. 

My sense of his state did much to make me more 
tender and more able to endure the sad outbreaks of 
passion which Dr. Rush taught me were to be looked 
for. Nor was my aunt less troubled than I. Indeed, 
from this time she showed as regarded my father all 
of that gentleness which lay beneath the exterior 
roughness of her masculine nature. I observed that 
she looked after his house, paying him frequent 
visits, and in all ways was solicitous that he should 
be made comfortable. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 425 


Near about the 1st of March — I am not quite 
sure of the date — I was asked in the absence of 
Major Clarkson, chief of the staff, to take his duties 
for a few days. I then saw how needlessly the general 
was creating enmities. His worst foe, Mr. Joseph 
Reed, had become in December presidentof the Coun- 
cil of State, and we — I say we — were thenceforward 
forever at outs with the bod}^ over which he presided. 
When at last, thoroughly disgusted, General Arnold 
was about to resign from the army, those unpleasant 
charges were made against him which came to little 
or nothing, but which embittered a life already 
harassed by disappointed ambition and want of 
means, and now also by the need to show a fair face to 
Mr. Shippen, whose daughter’s hand he had asked. 

General Arnold’s indifference as to privacy in his 
affairs amazed me, and I saw enough to make me 
both wonder and grieve. The friend of Schuyler and 
of Warren, the soldier whom Washington at one time 
absolutely trusted, attached me to him by his kind- 
ness and lavish generosity, and as an officer he had 
my unbounded admiration. Surely his place was in 
the field, and not at the dinner tables of Tories, 
whose society, as I have said, he much affected. It 
was a sign of weakness that he overesteemed the 
homage of a merely gay and fashionable set, and 
took with avidity the dangerous flattery of the Tory 
dames. 

He was withal a somewhat coarse man, with a vast 
amount of vanity. It was a blow to his self-estimate 
when he was unjustly passed over in the promotions 


426 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


to major-general. He felt it deeply, and was at no 
pains to hide his disgust. I did not wonder that the 
Shippens did all they could to break off this strange 
love-affair. They failed ; for Avhen a delicate-minded, 
sensitive, well-bred woman falls in love with a 
strong, coarse, passionate man, there is no more to 
be said except, “ Take her/’ 


XXIV 


S the spring came on my father’s condi- 
tion seemed to me to grow worse. At 
times he had great gnsts of passion or of 
tears, quite unlike himself ; for a day he 
would think I was my cousin, and be 
more affectionate than I had ever seen him. Once 
or twice he talked in a confused way of our estate in 
Wales, and so, what with this and my annoyance 
over the irregularities at our headquarters, I had 
enough to trouble me. 

The office duties were, as I have said, not much to 
my taste, but I learned a good deal which was of 
future use to me. It was a dull life, and but once 
did I come upon anything worth narrating. This, in 
fact, seemed to me at the time of less moment than 
it grew to be thereafter. 

Neither I nor Major Clarkson, his chief of staff, 
had all of the general’s confidence. Men came and 
went now and then with letters, or what not, of 
which naturally I learned nothing. One— a lean, 
small man, ill disguised as a Quaker— I saw twice. 
The last time he found the general absent. I offered 
to take charge of a letter he said he had, but he de- 
clined, saying he would return, and on this put it 

4 2 7 




428 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


back in his pocket, or tried to ; for he let it fall, and 
in quick haste secured it, although not before I 
thought I had recognised Arthur Wynne's peculiar 
handwriting. This astounded me, as you may ima- 
gine. But how could I dream of what it meant ? I 
concluded at last that I must have been mistaken, 
and I did not feel at liberty to ask the general. It 
was none of my business, after all. 

The fellow— I had always supposed him one of our 
spies— came again in an hour, and saw the general. 
I heard the man say, “ From Mr. Anderson, sir,” and 
then the door was closed, and the matter passed from 
my mind for many a day. 

Jack very soon after left us, and Darthea became 
more and more reserved, and unlike her merry, 
changeful self. 

On March 25, ’79, I came in late in the afternoon 
and sat down to read. My father, seated at the table, 
was tying up or untying bundles of old papers. 
Looking up, he said abruptly, “ Your cousin has been 
here to-day.” It w^as said so naturally as for a mo- 
ment to surprise me. I made no reply. A few 
minutes later he looked up again. 

“ Arthur, Arthur—” 

I turned from a book on tactics issued by Baron 
Steuben. “ I am not Arthur, father.” 

He took no notice of this, but went on to say that 
I ought to have come long ago. And what would I 
do with it ? 

I asked what he meant by it, and if I could help 
him with his papers. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 429 


No, no ; he needed no help. Did I ever hear from 
Wyncote, and how was William ? I made sure he 
had once again taken me for my cousin. I found it 
was vain to insist upon my being his son. For a 
moment he would seem puzzled, and would then call 
me Arthur. At last, when he became vexed, and said 
angrily that I was behaving worse than Hugh, I re- 
called Dr. Rush’s advice, and humouring his delusion, 
said, “ Uncle, let me help you.” Meanwhile he was 
fumbling nervously at the papers, tying and untying 
the same bundle, which seemed to be chiefly old bills 
and invoices. 

“ Here it is,” he went on. “ Take it, and have a 
care that thou hast it duly considered by James Wil- 
son, or another as good. Then we will see.” 

“ What is it, uncle?” I returned. 

He said it was the reconveyance of Wyncote to my 
grandfather ; and with entirely clear language, and 
no fault of thought that I could observe, he stated 
that at need he would execute a proper title to God- 
frey, the present man. 

I was struck dumb with astonishment and pity. 
Here was a man acting within a world of delusion as 
to who I was, and with as much competence as ever 
in his best days. I did not know what to say, nor 
even what to do. At last I rose, and put the old 
yellow parchment in my coat pocket, saying I was 
greatly obliged by his kindness. 

Then, his business habits acting as was their wont, 
he said, u But it will be proper for thee to give me a 
receipt.” 


430 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


X said it was not needed, but he insisted ; and at 
this I was puzzled. I did not want the deed, still less 
did I want it to pass into Arthur’s hands. I said, 
“Very good, sir,” and sitting down again, wrote a 
receipt, and, calmly signing my own name, gave it 
to him. He did not look at it, but folded and in- 
dorsed it, and threw it into the little red leather 
trunk on the table. 

I went away to my aunt’s without more delay, a 
much-astounded man. The good lady was no less 
astonished. We read the deed over with care, but 
its legal turns and its great length puzzled us both, 
and at last my aunt said : 

“Let me keep it, Hugh. It is a queer tangle. 
Just now we can do nothing, and later we shall see. 
There will be needed some wiser legal head than 
mine or yours, and what will come of it who can 
say? At all events, Mr. Arthur has it not, and in 
your father’s condition he himself will hardly be able 
to make a competent conveyance. Indeed, I think he 
will forget the whole business. I presume Master 
W ynne is not likely to return in a hurry.” 

In the beginning of April General Arnold married 
our beautiful Margaret Shippen, and took her to the 
new home, Mount Pleasant, above the shaded waters 
of the quiet Schuylkill. Tea-parties and punch- 
drinking followed, as was the custom. 

Mr. Arnold, as my aunt called him, after a fashion 
learned in London, and also common in the colonies, 
gave his bride Mount Pleasant as a dowry, and none 
knew— not even the fair Margaret— that it was hope- 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 431 

iessly mortgaged. Hither came guests in scores for 
a week after the marriage to drink tea with madam, 
the men taking punch upstairs with the groom, while 
the women waited below, and had cakes and gossip, 
in which this winter was rich enough to satisfy those 
of all parties. 

It was a year of defeat, and again the weaker folk, 
like Joseph Warder and some much better known,— I 
mention no names,— were talking of terms, or, by 
their firesides with a jug of Hollands, were criticising 
our leader, and asking why he did not move. Mean- 
while the army was as ill off as ever it had been since 
the camping at Valley Forge, while the air here in 
the city was full of vague rumours of defection and 
what not. I was of necessity caught in the vortex of 
gaiety which my chief loved and did much to keep 
up. He liked to see his aides at his table, and used 
them as a part of the excessive state we thought at 
this time most unseemly. 

I remember well an afternoon in April of this 
year, when, the spring being early, all manner of 
green things were peeping forth, while I walked to 
and fro in the hall at Mount Pleasant, that I might 
receive those who called and excuse the absence of 
the host. I wandered out, for as yet none came to 
call. The air was soft like summer, and, sweeter 
than birds overhead or the fragrant arbutus on the 
upland slopes, came Darthea in virgin white, and a 
great hat tied under her chin with long breadths of 
blue ribbon. My aunt walked with her from her 
coach, and close after them came a laughing throng 


43 2 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


of men and women, for the most part of the gover- 
nor’s set. There was bad news from the South, which 
was by no means unwelcome to these people, if I 
might judge from their comments. My aunt walked 
with them in silent wrath, and after I had met them 
at the door, turned aside with me and bade me go 
with her on the lawn, where the grass was already 
green. 

“ I have held my tongue,” she said. “ These people 
have neither maimers nor hearts. I told Mr. Shippen 
as much. And where does your general get all his 
money ? It is vulgar, this waste. Look ! ” she said ; 
“ look there ! It is well to feed the poor after a 
wedding; I like the old custom; but this is mere 
ostentation.” It was true; there was a crowd of 
the neighbouring farm people about the detached 
kitchen, eager for the food and rum which I saw 
given daily in absurd profusion. My Aunt Gainor 
shook her head. 

“ It will turn out badly, Hugh. This comes of a 
woman marrying beneath her. The man may be 
a good soldier,— oh, no doubt he is,— but he is not a 
gentleman. You must get away, Hugh.” Indeed, 
I much desired to do so, but until now had been de- 
tained, despite repeated applications to my chief. 

My aunt said no more, but went into the house, 
leaving me to await the coming of the many guests, 
men and women, gentlemen of the Congress, with 
officers in uniform, who flocked to this too hospitable 
mansion. I had just heard from Jack, and the con- 
trast shown by his account of the want of arms, 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 433 


clothing, and food seemed to me most sad when I re- 
jected upon the extravagance and useless excess I 
had seen throughout the winter now at an end. I 
did not wonder at my aunt’s anger. Her fears were 
hut the vague anticipations of a wise old woman 
who had seen the world and used good eyes and a 
sagacious brain. How little did she or I dream of 
the tragedy of dishonour into which the mad waste, 
the growing debts, the bitterness of an insulted and 
ambitious spirit, were to lead the host of this gay 
house ! 

As I turned in my walk I saw the general dis- 
mount, and went to meet him. He said: “I shall 
want you at nine to-night at my quarters in town— 
an errand of moment into the Jerseys. You must 
leave early to-morrow. Are you well horsed?” 

I said yes, and was, in fact, glad of any more ac- 
tive life. Before nine that night I went to head- 
quarters, and found a number of invitations to dine 
or sup. It may amuse those for whom I write to 
know that nearly all were writ on the white backs 
of playing-cards ; but one from Madam Arnold was 
printed. I sat down, facing the open doorway into 
the general’s room, and began to write refusals, not 
knowing how long I might be absent. 

Presently looking up, I saw the general at his 
desk. I had not heard him enter. Tw t o candles were 
in front of him. He was sitting with his cheeks rest- 
ing on his hands and his elbows on the desk, facing 
me, and so deep in thought that I did not think fit to 
interrupt him. His large, ruddy features now were 


434 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


pale and sombre, and twice I saw him use his kerchief 
to mop his brow as if it were moist from overheating. 

At last he called me, and I went in. His forehead 
and the powdered hair about it were in fact wet ? like 
those of a man who is coming out of an ague. In- 
deed, he looked so ill that I ventured to ask after his 
health. He replied that he was well. That infamous 
court-martial business annoyed him, and as to Mr. 
Reed, if there were any fight in the man, he would 
have him out and get done with him— which seemed 
imprudent talk, to say no more. 

“ Captain Wynne,” he went on, 11 early to-morrow 
you will ride through Bristol to the ferry below 
Trenton. Cross and proceed with all haste to South 
Amboy. At the Lamb Tavern you will meet an 
officer from Sir Henry Clinton. Deliver to him this 
despatch in regard to exchange of prisoners. He 
may or may not have a letter for you to bring back. 

In this package are passes from me, and one from 
Sir Henry Clinton, in case you meet with any Tory 
parties.” 

“I shall be sure to meet them in west Jersey. 
Pardon me, sir, but would it not be easier to pass 
through our own lines in the middle Jerseys?” 

“You have your orders, Mr. Wynne,” he replied 
severely. 

I bowed. 

Then he seemed to hesitate, and I stood waiting j 
his will. “ The despatch,” he said, “ is open in case 
it becomes needful to show it. Perhaps you had 
better read it.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 435 


This sounded unusual, but I opened it, and read 
to the effect that the exchanges would go on if Sir 
Henry did not see fit to alter his former proposal, but 
that some time might elapse before the lists on our 
side were made out. “ The officer charged with this 
letter will be unable to give any further information, 
as he has no powers to act for me. 

“ I have the honour to be 

“ Your obedient, humble servant, 

“ Benedict Arnold, 

“ Major-General in command of 
Philadelphia and the western Jerseys.” 

I looked up. “ Is that all t ” 

“ Not quite. If it chance that no officer appears to 
meet you at Amboy, you will return at once.” 

Very glad of relief from the routine of rather dis- 
tasteful duties, I rode away at dawn the next day up 
the Bristol road. I was stopped, as I supposed I 
should be, by a small band of Tory partisans, but 
after exhibiting my British pass I was permitted to 
proceed. Between Trenton and Amboy I met a party 
of our own horse, and had some trouble until I 
allowed their leader, a stupid lout, to read my open 
despatch, when he seemed satisfied, and sent on two 
troopers with me, whom I left near Amboy. 

At the inn I waited a day, when a ketch appeared, 
and an officer, stepping ashore, came up from the 
beach to meet me. I saw, as he drew near, that it 
was Arthur Wynne. 

il Glad to see you,” he cried, in a quite hearty way. 


436 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

“ It is an unexpected pleasure. Andre was to have 
come, but he is ill. He desires his regards and par- 
ticular compliments.” 

Was I always to meet this man when I was so 
hampered that to have my will of him was out of the 
question? I said the meeting could not be unex- 
pected, or how could Andre have known ? At this I 
saw him look a bit queer, and I went on to add that 
the pleasure was all on his side. 

“ 1 am sorry,” he returned. 

Not caring to hear further, I said abruptly: “Let 
us proceed to business. Here is a despatch for Sir 
Henry. Have you any letter for me ? ” 

“None,” he replied. 

“ Then I am free to go.” 

“Pardon me 5 not yet,” he said. “I beg that for 
once you will hear what I in person have to say. I 
have been greatly misrepresented.” 

“ Indeed ? ” 

“ Yes. Pray be patient. I meant to write to you, 
but that has been difficult, as you know.” 

“ Of course. And what have you to say, sir ? ” 

“ You have misunderstood me. There have been 
reasons of difference between us which, I am happy 
to say, are at an end for me.” He meant as to 
Darthea. “ I made a mistake in the prison such as 
any man might have made. I have been sorry ever 
since. I made an effort to arrest you in the garden ; 
I did my duty, and was glad you escaped. If you 
are not satisfied, a time may come when I can put my- 
self at your disposal. Our present service and our 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 437 

relationship make me hope that yon may never 
desire it.” 

He was quiet, cool, and perfectly master of himself. 
It did not suit him to have a break with me, and I 
well knew why. It would end all chance of his future 
intercourse with my father, and why he did not wish 
this to happen I now knew pretty well. 

I said, “Mr. Wynne, the arrest is a small matter. 
Thanks to Miss Peniston and to Major Andre, it 
came to nothing.” At my use of Darthea’s name I 
saw him frown, and I went on : 

“You have lied about the prison, sir. If Mr. 
Delaney, who heard you ask my name, were here, I 
should long ago have exposed you and your conduct 
to all who cared to hear. You were shrewd enough 
to provide against the possibility of my telling my 
own story. I can only hope, at no distant day, to 
have the means of unmasking a man who- -why, I 
know not— has made himself my enemy. Then, sir, 
and always I shall hope to ask of you another form 
of satisfaction.” 

u Cousin Hugh,” he returned, “ I shall be able to 
prove to you and to Mr. Delaney, when he can be 
found, that you are both mistaken. I trust that you 
will not for so slight a reason see fit to disturb my 
pleasant relations with your father.” They were, I 
thought, profitable as well as pleasant. 

“ I shall use my judgment,” said I. 

“I am sorry. I hoped for a more agreeable end- 
ing to our talk. Good-evening.” And he walked 
away. 


438 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Before nightfall of the day after I was again at 
home, and had made my report, little dreaming of the 
innocent part I had played in a sorrowful drama, nor 
how great was the risk I had run. Concerning this 
I was not made clear for many a day. I had carried 
a letter which was not what it seemed to be, but was 
really a means of satisfying Clinton that Arnold in- 
tended to betray us, and had accepted his terms. Had 
this been known when the great treason came, I 
should no doubt have got into serious difficulties. The 
unreasoning storm of anger which followed General 
Arnold’s treachery spared no one who was in any 
way involved, and no appearance of innocence would 
have saved even so loyal and blameless a soldier as 
I from certain disgrace. 

I have at times wondered that a man to outward 
seeming so kindly and so plainly attached to me as 
Arnold apparently was should have used me for such 
an errand ; but he who could value lightly the respect 
and friendship of Washington and Schuyler may 
have had few scruples as to the perils to which he 
might expose a simple officer like myself. Who bore 
his later missives no one knows. I have never 
thought, as some do, that any Eve was active in the 
temptation which led to the dark treachery of the 
saddest hour of that weary war. Arnold’s first 
downward step was taken months before he knew 
Margaret Shippen, as Sir Henry Clinton’s papers 
have now most clearly shown. 

Of my personal regret as to Arnold’s disgrace I 
have said little in these pages, and shall say but little 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 439 


more. His generosity may have been but a part of 
his lavishness in all directions ; but this was he who 
for years cared liberally for the destitute children of 
his friend Warren after his death at Bunker Hill; 
and this was he who, as Schuyler has told me, saved 
the life of the soldier who had just shot him on the 
field at Saratoga. Surely the good and the bad are 
wonderfully mingled in our humanity ! 

Early in June of ’79, and after repeated requests 
on my part to rejoin my regiment, I received orders 
to report to the colonel in command of the Third 
Pennsylvania foot, then lying at Ramapo, New 
York. I took leave of my people, and, alas! of 
Darthea, and set out with a number of recruits. I 
was glad indeed to be away. Darthea was clearly 
unhappy, and no longer the gay enchantress of un- 
numbered moods ; neither did my home life offer me 
comfort or affection. 

If, however, I looked for activity in the army, I 
was greatly mistaken. Sir Henry held New York ; 
our own people had the Jerseys. A great chain of 
forts limited the movements of the British on the 
Hudson. Our general seemed to me to have a 
paralysing influence on "whatever British commander 
was matched against him. As it had been with Gage 
in Boston and with How r e in Philadelphia, so was it 
now with Clinton in New York. From Danbury in 
Connecticut to Elizabeth in New Jersey, a thin line 
watched the pent-up enemy, who to seaward was 
guarded by a great fleet. North of the Potomac he 
held New York alone, but on the frontier a savage 


44° Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


contest raged, and in the South the war everywhere 
went against us. 

Occasional skirmishes, incessant drill, and a life 
of expedients to shelter, clothe, and feed my men, 
filled the tedious winter of ”79 and *80, but affords me 
nothing of interest to add to the story of my life. In 
August General Arnold passed through our forces to 
take command of the forts at West Point, having de- 
clined a command in the field on account, as he said, 
of continued suffering from his wounded leg. I fear 
it was a mere pretence. 

We were lying about Middlebrook, New Jersey, 
when, a few days later, Colonel Alexander Hamilton 
came to my quarters, evidently much amused. He 
said the videttes had captured a batch of letters, 
mostly of no moment, but some too mischievous to 
be let to pass. 

“Here,” he said, “is one which concerns you, 
Wynne. You need have no scruple as to the read- 
ing of it. It has much entertained the mess of the 
headquarters guard.” 

He sat 'down with Jack and a pipe to keep off the 
Tory mosquitos, while I fell to reading the letter. 
The same buzzing Tories were busy about me also 
with bugle and beak, but when, as I glanced at the 
letter, I caught Darthea’s name on the second page, 
I forgot them and hesitated. “Still,” thought I, 
“others have read it, and it may be well that I 
should do so.” It was no longer private. I went on 
to learn what it said. It was from Miss Franks in 
New Yoi'k to some young woman of her set in my 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 441 


own city, but to whom was not cleaj^ as an outer 
cover seemed to have been lost or cast away. 

“ My dear Pussy,” it began : “ I hope you will 
get this despite the rebels, else you will lose much 
that is useful in the warfare with our dear enemy, 
the unfair sex.” After this was an amusing record 
of the latest modes and much about gowns, pin- 
cushion hoops, and face-patches. “ Also the gentle- 
men of New York wear two watches, which with you 
is not considered genteel, and the admiral has intro- 
duced the fashion of dining by candle-light at four. 
It is very becoming, I do assure you. 

“How is the pretty boy-captain? Does he still 
blush ? ” This was clearly Jack, but who was Pussy ? 
“And Mr. Wynne— not Darthea’s Mr. Wynne, but 
the perverted Quaker with the blue eyes ? ” It was 
plain who this was. 

“ Darthea’s captain— but I must not tell tales out 
of school ; —indeed he needs to be dealt with. Tell 
the witch if she mil stay among the R. R/s— which 
is what we call them— Ragged Rebels it is— she 
must look to suffer. I am not as sure she does. Oh, 
these men’ Between us, there is a certain Olivia 

L who is great friends with Mr. Wynne. She 

hath a winning air of artless youth. I am pleased to 
hear from my colonel, whom you must soon know, 
that we shall soon be with you in our dear Philadel- 
phia, and Mr. G. W. hoeing tobacco, or worse, poor 
man. Dear me ! I have quite lost my way, and must 
look back. 

“ I can fancy Darthea weeping. She hath small 


442 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


need. It is my way to love to tease whom I love, and 
the more I do love the more I do love to tease. I can- 
not believe any would be false to Darthea, nor 
is he, I am sure $ but thou dost know (as Mistress 
Wynne’s Captain Blushes would word it. ‘Thou’ 
and 1 thee 7 are sweet. I would I had a Quaker lover) 
—thou dost know that the she who is here is always 
more dangerous than the she who is there. That is 
Darthea, dear. 

“ I forgot to say stays is wore looser, which is a 
mercy j also the garters must be one red and one 
blue. 77 

When, amused, I read a bit to Jack, he declared 
we ought to read no more, and if he had been of the 
mess which did read it, he would have had reason out 
of some one. Indeed, he was angry-red, and begin- 
ning to twitch in his queer way, so that I feared he 
would bring about a quarrel with Mr. Hamilton, 
who knew neither woman and was still shaking with 
laughter. 

I liked it no better than Jack did, but he had said 
enough, and I shook my head at Hamilton as I lay 
on the floor of the hut behind Jack. Mr. Hamilton, 
who was a very model of good breeding, and despite 
his vivacity never forgot what was due to others, said 
at once : “ I ask pardon, Mr. W arder. I did not know 
either of the ladies was known to you. Had I been 
aware, no one should have read the letter. 77 

Then Jack said he had been hasty, and hoped Mr, 
Hamilton would excuse him. 

“ There is nothing to excuse, Mr. Warder 3 but I 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 443 


must tell you the rest, for it much delighted his Ex- 
cellency. It is but a madcap account of how Miss 
Franks tied our own colours all over Mr. Andre’s 
black poodle, and let him loose at a ball the De 
Lanceys had in honour of Sir Henry Clinton. Our 
Excellency says it is a pity we had not captured the 
fair writer. That is as near to a jest as he ever 
comes, but he can enjoy our staff nonsense for all 
his gravity. I leave you the letter ; you may like 
some day to deliver it. I hope we shall move soon. 
This camp life is devilish dull. And here is the 
British mouse in a hole and won’t come out, and our 
serious old cat a- watching. Lord, the patience of the 
man ! Come over and see us soon, Mr. Warder, and 
you too, Wynne.” 

“I wish Miss Darthea had the letter. But she 
never can have it now,” said I. 

“Hardly,” says Jack, blushing sweetly. I think 
the garters were on his mind. 

Early in August Jack’s command was sent to join 
the army on the Hudson, and, as I learned later, was 
camped with the bulk of our forces about the former 
seat of the Tappan Indians, among the old Dutch 
farms. These changes of troops from place to place 
were most perplexing to us, who did not comprehend 
the game, and were now at Hartford, and a month 
later at Elizabeth in the Jerseys. My own regiment 
had seen little service beyond the Jersey line, and was 
willing enough to get out of reach of those summer 
pests, the mosquitos. We were soon gratified, 


XXV 


N the 20th of September I was desired by 
my colonel to conduct two companies 
from Newark, where we lay, through the 
gap at Ramapo, New York, to the main 
army, which at this date was camped, as 
I have said, about Tappan. Being stout and well, I 
was glad to move, and glad of a chance to see the 
great river Hudson. We were assigned camp-ground 
back from the river, on a hill slope, in a long-settled 
country, where since early in the seventeenth century 
the Dutch had possessed the land. Having no tents, 
on arriving we set to work at the old business of hut- 
building, so that it was not until the 26th of Septem- 
ber that I had an idle hour in which to look up Jack, 
who lay somewhere between Tappan and the river. 

It was, as usual, a joyous meeting, and we never 
did less lack for talk. Jack told me that he was 
ordered on an unpleasant bit of business, and asked 
if I could not get leave to go with him. Orders were 
come from West Point to seize and destroy all 
periaguas, canoes, and boats in the possession of the 
few and often doubtfully loyal people between us 
and King’s Ferry. He had for this duty two sail* 

444 







Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 445 

rigged dories with slide-keels, and would take two 
soldiers in each. 

Upon his representing my skill as a sailor, and the 
need for two officers, I was allowed to turn over my 
command to the junior captain and to join Jack. 

We set off on the 27th of September with prov- 
ender and two small tents, and went away up the 
river with a fine wind. The water was a dull gray, 
and the heavens clouded. The far shore of Dobb’s 
Ferry and Tarrytown was already gaily tinted with 
the hues of the autumn, and to south the bleak gray 
lines of the Palisades below Sneedon’s Landing lay 
sombre and stern under a sunless sky. One of my 
men was a good sailor, and I was thus enabled to 
spend most of the day in Jack’s boat. 

I mention all these details because of a curious 
coincidence. I said to Jack— I was steering— that I 
had had since dawn a feeling that some calamity 
was about to happen. Now this was, as I recall it, 
a notion quite new to me, and far more like Jack 
himself. He laughed and said it was the east wind. 
Then after a pause he added : “ I was trying to recall 
something I once heard, and now I have it. This 
waiting for an idea is like fishing in the deep waters 
of the mind : sometimes one gets only a nibble, and 
sometimes a bite ; but I have my fish. It was Dr. 
Rush who told me that the liver was the mother of 
ghosts and presentiments. When I told him I was 
afflicted with these latter, he put on his glasses, 
looked at me, and said I was of a presentimenta] 
temperament,” 


446 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

“ And he was right,” said I, laughing. Then Jack 
declared the weather was sorry enough to account 
for my notion. I made answer, as I remember, that 
I was not subject to the rule of the weather-cock, 
like some fellows I knew, nor to thinking I was 
going to be shot. This shut up Jack for a while, and 
we got off on to our own wise plans for capturing 
Sir Henry and all his host. 

At last we ran ashore at a settled point called 
Nyack, and thence we went to and fro wherever we 
saw the smoke of men’s homes. We broke up or 
burned many boats and dugouts, amid the lamenta- 
tions of their owners, because with the aid of these 
they were enabled to take fish, and were ill off for 
other diet. We had an ugly task, and could only 
regret the sad but inexorable necessities of war. 

We camped ten miles above Tappan, and next 
day, near to dusk, got as far as King’s Landing, 
having pretty thoroughly attended to our ungracious 
task. 

As the tall promontory of Stony Point rose before 
us, dim in the evening light, we talked of Wayne’s 
gallant storming of this formidable fort, and of his 
affection for the bayonet, which, he said, was to be 
preferred to the musket because it was always loaded. 

“We of our State had most of that glory,” said 
Jack j “ and all our best generals, save the great chief, 
are men of the North,” which was true and strange. 

We had at this place a strong force of horse and 
foot, and here we meant to pass the night with some 
of our officers, friends of Jack’s. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 447 


It was quite dark, when, running in with a free 
sheet, we came close to a large barge rowed by 
six men. As we approached I heard a stern order 
to keep off, and recognised in the boat, where were 
also armed men, Major Tallmadge, whom I knew. I 
called to him, but as he only repeated his order, I 
answered, “Very well, sir;” and we drew in to the 
shore some hundred feet away. 

Jack said it was queer ; wliat could it mean ? We 
walked toward the small blockhouse in time to see 
Tallmadge and several soldiers conduct a cloaked 
prisoner into the fort. A little later the major came 
out, and at once asked me to excuse his abruptness, 
saying that he had in charge Sir Henry Clinton’s 
adjutant-general, who had been caught acting as a 
spy, and was now about to be taken to Tappan. I 
exclaimed, “Not Major Andre ! ” 

“Yes,” he returned; “Andre. A bad business.” 
And I was hastily told the miserable story of Ar- 
nold’s treason and flight. I turned to Jack. “ There 
it is,” said I. “ What of my presentiment ? ” He was 
silent. “You know,” I added, “that to this man I 
owed my life at the Mischianza ball; here he is in 
the same trap from which his refusal to aid my 
cousin saved me.” I was terribly distressed, and at 
my urgent desire, in place of remaining at the fort, 
we set out after supper, and pulled down the river 
against the flood-tide, while my unfortunate friend 
Andre was hurried away to Tappan, guarded by a 
strong escort of light horse. 

We reached Sneedon’s Landing about 5 A. M., and 


448 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


I went up with Jack to his hnt. Here I got a bit of 
uneasy sleep, and thence set off to find Hamilton; 
for the whole staff, with his Excellency, had made 
haste to reach the camp at Tappan so soon as the 
general felt reassured as to the safety of West 
Point. 

I walked a half-mile up a gentle rise of ground to 
the main road, about which were set, close to the old 
Dutch church, a few modest, one-story stone houses, 
with far and near the cantonments of the armies. 
At the bridge over a noisy brook I was stopped 
by sentries set around a low brick building then 
used as headquarters. It stood amid scattered 
apple-trees on a slight rise of ground, and was, as I 
recall it, built of red and black brick. Behind the 
house was the little camp of the mounted guard, and 
on all sides were stationed sentinels, who kept the 
immediate grounds clear from intrusion. For this 
there was need; soldiers and officers were continu- 
ally coming hither in hopes to gather fresh news j 
of the great treason, or curious as to this strange i 
capture of Sir Henry Clinton’s adjutant. General | 
officers came and went with grave faces; aides 
mounted and rode away in haste; all was excite- j 
ment and anxious interest, every one asking ques- I 
tions, and none much the wiser. With difficulty I 
succeeded in sending in a note to Hamilton along 
with Jack’s report. This was nigh to nine in the 
morning, but it was after midday before I got a 
chance to see my friend. 

Meanwhile I walked up and down in a state of 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 449 

such agitation and distress as never before nor since 
have I known. When I had seen Major Tallmadge, 
he knew but little of those details of Arnold’s treason 
which later became the property of all men ; but he 
did tell me that the correspondence had been carried 
on for Sir Henry by Andre in the name of Ander- 
son, and this brought to my mind the letter which 
the Quaker farmer declined to surrender to me at the 
time I was serving as Arnold’s aide. I went back 
at last to Jack’s hut in the valley near the river and 
waited. I leave J ack to say how I felt and acted that 
day and evening, as I lay and thought of Andre 
and of poor Margaret Shippen, Arnold’s wife: 

“ Never have I seen my dear Hugh in such trouble. 
Here was a broken-hearted woman, the companion 
of his childhood ; and Andre, who, at a moment which 
must have called upon his every instinct as a soldier, 
held back and saved my friend from a fate but too 
likely to be his own. Hugh all that evening lay in 
our hut, and now and then would break out declar- 
ing he must do something j but what he knew not, 
nor did I. He was even so mad as to think he might 
plan some way to assist Andre to escape. I listened, 
but said nothing, being assured from long knowledge 
that his judgment would correct the influence of the 
emotion which did at first seem to disturb it. 

“ Now all this miserable business is over, I ask 
ipyself if our chief would have tried to buy an Eng- 
lish general, or if so, would I or Hugh have gone 
on such an errand as Andre’s. To be a spy is but 
a simple duty, and no shame in it; but as to the 


450 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


shape this other matter took, I do not feel able to 
decide.” 

Still later he adds : 

“ Nor is my mind more fully settled as to it to-day ; 
some think one way, some another. I had rather 
Andre had not gone on this errand with the promise 
of a great reward. Yet I think he did believe he was 
only doing his duty.” 

After an hour or more of fruitless thinking, not 
hearing from Mr. Hamilton, I walked back to head- 
quarters. Neither in the joy and pride of glad news, 
nor when disaster on disaster fell on us, have I ever 
seen anything like the intensity of expectation and of 
anxiety which at this time reigned in our camps. The 
capture of the adjutant-general was grave enough; 
his fate hung in no doubtful balance ; but the feeling 
aroused by the fall of a great soldier, the dishonour 
of one greatly esteemed in the ranks, the fear of what 
else might come, all served to foster uneasiness and 
to feed suspicion. As the great chief had said, whom 
now could he trust, or could we ? The men talked in 
half-whispers about the camp-fires ; an hundred wild 
rumours were afloat ; and now and again eager eyes 
looked toward the low brick church where twelve 
general officers were holding the court-martial which 
was to decide the fate of my friend. 

It was evening before the decision of the court- 
martial became generally known. I wandered about 
all that day in the utmost depression of mind. 
About two in the afternoon of this 29th of Septem- 
ber I met Hamilton near the creek. He said he had 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 451 


been busy all day, and was free for an hour ; would 
I come and dine at his quarters ? What was the 
matter with me? I was glad of a chance to speak 
freely. We had a long and a sad talk, and he then 
learned why this miserable affair affected me so 
deeply. He had no belief that the court could do 
other than condemn Mr. Andre to die. I asked anx- 
iously if the chief were certain to approve the sen- 
tence. He replied gloomily, “ As surely as there is a 
God in heaven.” 

I could only wait. A hundred schemes were in 
my mind, each as useless as the others. In fact, I 
knew not what to do. 

On the 30th his Excellency signed the death-war- 
rant, and, all hope being at an end, I determined to 
make an effort to see the man to whom I believe I 
owed my life. When I represented the matter to 
Mr. Hamilton and to the Marquis de Lafayette, I put 
my request on the ground that Mr. Andre had here 
no one who could be called a friend, excepting only 
myself, and that to refuse me an interview were 
needlessly cruel. I wrote my application with care, 
the marquis, who was most kind throughout, charg- 
ing himself with the business of placing it favourably 
before our chief. The execution had been ordered 
for October 1, but, upon receipt of some communica- 
tion from Sir Henry Clinton, it was postponed until 
noon on October 2. 

On the 30th I rode out into the hills back of Tap- 
pan, and tried to compose myself by my usual and 
effective remedy of a hard ride. It was useless now. 


452 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


I came back to my friend’s quarters and tried to read, 
finding a stray volume of the “ Rambler ” on his table. 
It was as vain a resort. 

Never at any time in piy memory have I spent two 
days of such unhappiness. I could get no rest and 
no peace of mind. To be thus terribly in the grip 
of events over which you have no control is to men 
of my temper a maddening affliction. My heart 
seemed all the time to say, “ Do something,” and my 
reason to reply, “ There is nothing to do.” It was 
thus in the jail when my cousin was on my mind; 
now it was as to Andre, and as to the great debt I 
owed him, and how to pay it. People who despair 
easily do not fall into the clutches of this intense 
craving for some practical means of relief where 
none can be. It is the hopeful, the resolute, and such 
as are educated by success who suffer thus. But why 
inflict on others the story of these two days, except 
to let those who come after me learn how one of 
their blood looked upon a noble debt which, alas! 
like many debts, must go to be settled in another 
world, and in other ways than ours. 

Hamilton, who saw my agitation, begged me to 
prepare for disappointment. I, however, could see 
no reason to deny a man access to one doomed, when 
no other friend was near. Nor was I wrong. About 
seven in the evening of the 1st, the marquis came in 
haste to find me. He had asked for my interview 
with Mr. Andre as a favour to himself. His Excel- 
lency had granted the request in the face of objec 
tions from two general officers, whom the marquis 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 453 


did not name. As I thanked him he gave me this 
| order : 

“ To Major Tallmadge: 

“ The bearer, Hugh Wynne, Esq., Captain, Second 
Company, Third Regiment of Pennsylvania foot, has 
herewith permission to visit Major Andre. 

“Geo e Washington. 

“ October 1, 1780.” 

I went at once— it was now close to eight in the 
evening— to the small house of one Maby, where the 
i prisoner was kept. It was but an hundred yards 
from his Excellency’s quarters. Six sfentries marched 
to and fro around it, and within the room two officers 
■ remained day and night with drawn swords. My 
pass was taken at the door of the house, while I 
waited on the road without. In a few minutes an 
officer came to me with Major Tallmadge’s compln 
ments, and would I be pleased to enter? 

I sometimes think it strange how, even in parties 
ulars, the natural and other scenery of this dark 
drama remains distinct in my memory, unaffected by 
the obliterating influence of the years which have 
effaced so much else I had been more glad to keep. 

I can see to-day the rising moon, the yellowish 
road, the long, gray stone farm-house of one story, 
with windows set in an irregular frame of brickwork. 
The door opens, and I find myself in a short hall, 
where two officers salute as I pass. My conductor 
says, “This way, Captain Wynne,” and I enter a 


454 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


long, cheerless-looking apartment, the sitting-room 
of a Dutch farm-house. Two lieutenants, seated 
within at the doorway, rose as I entered, and, salut- 
ing me, sat down again. I stood an instant looking 
about me. A huge log fire roared on the hearth, so 
lighting the room that I saw its glow catch the bay- 
onet tips of the sentinels outside as they went and 
came. There were a half-dozen wooden chairs, and 
on a pine table four candles burning, a bottle of 
Hollands, a decanter and glasses. In a high-backed 
chair sat a man with his face to the fire. It was 
Andre. He was tranquilly sketching, with a quill 
pen, a likeness of himself . 1 He did not turn or leave 
off drawing uiltil Captain Tomlinson, one of the 
officers in charge, seeing me pause, said: 

“ Your pardon, major. Here is a gentleman come 
to visit you.” 

As he spoke the prisoner turned, and I was at once 
struck by the extreme pallor of his face even as seen 
in the red light of the fire. His death-like whiteness 
at this time brought out the regular beauty of his 
features as his usual ruddiness of colour never did. 
I have since seen strong men near to certain 
death, but I recall no one who, with a serene and un- 
troubled visage, was yet as white as was this gentle- 
man. 

The captain did not present me, and for a moment 
I stood with a kind of choking in the throat, which 
came, I suppose, of the great shock Andre’s appear- 
ance gave me. He was thus the first to speak : 

1 My acquaintance, Captain Tomlinson, has it. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 4.55 


“Pardon me,” he said, as he rose; “the name 
escaped me.” 

“ Mr. Hugh Wynne,” I said, getting myself pulled 
together— it was much needed. 

“ Oh, Wynne ! ” he cried quite joyously ; “ 1 did 
not know you. How delightful to see a friend $ how 
good of you to come ! Sit down. Our accommoda- 
tions are slight. Thanks to his Excellency, here are 
Madeira and Hollands ; may I offer you a glass f ” 

“ No, no,” I said, as we took chairs by the fire, on 
which he cast a log, remarking how cold it was. 
Then he added: 

“Well, Wynne, what can I do for you?” And 
then, smiling, “ Pshaw ! what a thing is habit ! What 
can I do for you, or, indeed, my dear Wynne, for any 
one ? But, Lord ! I am as glad as a child.” 

It was all so sweet and natural that I was again 
quite overcome. “ My God ! ” I cried, “ I am so sorry, 
Mr. Andre ! I came down from King’s Ferry in 
haste when I heard of this, and have been three days 
getting leave to see you. I have never forgotten 
your great kindness at the Mischianza. If there 
be any service I can render you, I am come to 
offer it.” 

He smiled and said: “How strange is fate, Mr. 
Wynne ! Here am I in the same sad trap in which 
you might have been. I was thinking this very 
evening of your happier escape.” Then he went on 
to tell me that he had instantly recognised me at the 
ball, and also— what in my confusion at the time I 
did not hear —that Miss Peniston had cried out as 


456 Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 


she was about to faint, “ No, no, Mr. Andr6 ! ” After- 
ward he had wondered at what seemed an appeal to 
him rather than to my cousin. 

At last he said it would be a relief to him if he 
might speak to me out of ear-shot of the officers. I 
said as much to these gentlemen, and after a moment’s 
hesitation they retired outside of the still open door- 
way of the room, leaving us freer to say what we 
pleased. He was quiet and, as always, courteous to 
a fault ; but I did not fail to observe that at times, 
as we talked and he spoke a word of his mother, his 
eyes filled with tears. In general he was far more 
composed than I. 

He said : “ Mr. Wynne, I have writ a letter, which 
I am allowed to send to General Washington. Will 
you see that he has it in person ? It asks that I may 
die a soldier’s death. All else is done. My mother 
—but no matter. I have wound up my earthly affairs. 

I am assured, through the kindness of his Excellency, 
that my letters and effects will reach my friends and 
those who are still closer to me. I had hoped to see 
Mr. Hamilton to-night, that I might ask him to de- 
liver to your chief the letter I now give you. But j 
he has not yet returned, and I must trust it to you 
to make sure that it does not fail to be considered. 
That is all, I think.” 

I said I would do my best, and was there no more ! 
— no errand of confidence — nothing else? 

“No,” he replied thoughtfully; “no, I think not. I 
I shall never forget your kindness.” Then he smiled 1 
and added, “ My 1 never ’ is a brief day for me, ! 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 457 

Wynne, unless God permits ns to remember in the 
world where I shall be to-morrow.” 

I hardly recall what answer I made. I was ready 
to cry like a child. He went on to bid me say to the 
good Attorney-General Chew that he had not for- 
gotten his pleasant hospitalities, and he sent also some 
amiable message to the women of his house and to 
my aunt and to the Shippens, speaking with the 
ease and unrestraint of a man who looks to meet 
you at dinner next week, and merely says a brief 
good-by. 

I promised to charge myself with his messages, 
and said at last that many officers desired me to ex- 
press to him their sorrrow at his unhappy situation, 
and that all men thought it hard that the life of an 
honest soldier was to be taken in place of that of a 
villain and coward who, if he had an atom of honour, 
would give himself up. 

“ May I beg of you, sir,” he returned, “ to thank 
these gentlemen of your army ? ’Tis all I can do ; 
and as to General Arnold — no, Wynne, he is not one 
to do that ; I could not expect it.” 

Before I rose to go on his errand I said, — and I was 
a little embarrassed, — “ May I be pardoned, sir, if I 
put to you a quite personal question ? ” 

“ Assuredly,” he returned. “ What is it, and how 
can a poor devil in my situation oblige you?” 

I said : “ I have but of late learned that the ex- 
changes were all settled when I met my cousin, 
Arthur Wynne, at Amboy. Could it have been that 
the letter I bore had anything to do with this treason 


458 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


of General Arnold? Witliin a day or two this 
thought has come to me.” 

Seeing that he hesitated, I added, “ Do not answer 
me unless you see fit ; it is a matter quite personal 
to myself.” 

“No,” he replied j “I see no reason why I should 
not. Yes, it was the first of the letters sent to Sir 
Henry over General Arnold's signature. Your cousin 
suggested you as a messenger whose undoubted posi- 
tion and name would insure the safe carriage of 
what meant more to us than its mere contents seemed 
to imply. Other messengers had become unsafe ; it 
was needful at once to find a certain way to reply to 
us. The letter you bore was such as an officer might 
carry, as it dealt seemingly with nothing beyond 
questions of exchange of prisoners. For these rea- 
sons, on a hint from Captain Wynne, you were se- 
lected as a person beyond suspicion. I was ill at the 
time, as I believe Mr. Wynne told you.” 

“ It is only too plain,” said I. “ It must have been 
well known at our headquarters in Jersey that this 
exchange business was long since settled. Had I 
been overhauled by any shrewd or suspicious officer, 
the letter might well have excited doubt and have 
led to inquiry.” 

“Probably; that was why you were chosen— as a 
man of known character. By the way, sir, I had no 
share in the selection, nor did I know how it came 
about, until my recovery. I had no part in it.” 

I thanked him for thus telling me of his having 
no share in the matter. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 459 


“ You were ordered,” he continued, “ as I recall it, 
to avoid your main army in the Jerseys; you can 
now see why. There is no need of further conceal- 
ment.” 

It was clear enough. “I owe you,” I said, “my 
excuses for intruding a business so personal.” 

“And why not? I am glad to serve you. It is 
rather a relief, sir, to talk of something else than my 
own hopeless case. Is there anything else ? Pray 
go on ; I am at your service.” 

“You are most kind. I have but one word to add ; 
Arthur Wynne was— nay, must have been— deep in 
this business?” 

“ Ah, now you have asked too much,” he replied ; 
“but it is I who am to blame. I had no right to 
name Captain Wynne.” 

“You must not feel uneasy. I owe him no love, 
Mr. Andre; but I will take care that you do not 
suffer. His suggestion that I should be made use of 
put in peril not my life, but my honour. It is not 
to my interest that the matter should ever get noised 
abroad.” 

“ I see,” he said. “ Your cousin must be a strange 
person. Do with what I have said as seems right to 
you. I shall be— or rather,” and he smiled quite 
cheerfully, “ I am content. One’s grammar forgets 
to-morrow sometimes.” 

Ilis ease and quiet seemed to me amazing. But 
it was getting late, and I said I must go at once. 

As I w T as in act to leave, he took my hand and said : 
“ There are no thanks a man about to die can give 


460 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


that I do not offer you, Mr. Wynne. Be assured 
your visit has helped me. It is much to see the face 
of a friend. All men have been good to me and kind, 
and none more so than his Excellency. If to-morrow 
I could see, as I go to death, one face I have known 
in happier hours— it is much to ask— I may count on 
you, I am sure. All, I see I can ! And my letter— 
you will be sure to do your best ? ” 

“ Yes, 77 1 said, not trusting myself to speak further, 
and only adding, “ Good-by, 77 as I wrung his hand. 
Then I went out into the cold October starlight. 

It was long after ten when I found Hamilton. I 
told him briefly of my interview, and asked if it 
would be possible for me to deliver in person to the 
general Mr. Andre’s letter. I had, in fact, that on 
my mind which, if but a crude product of despair, I 
yet did wish to say where alone it might help or be 
considered, 

Hamilton shook his head. “I have so troubled 
his Excellency as to this poor fellow that I fear I can 
do no more. Men who do not know my chief cannot 
imagine the distress of heart this business has caused. 
I do not mean, Wynne, that he has or had the least 
indecision concerning the sentence ; but lean tell you 
this— the signature of approval of the court’s finding 
is tremulous and unlike his usual writing. We will 
talk of this again. Will you wait at my quarters ? 
I will do my best for you. 77 

I said I would take a pipe and walk on the road 
at the foot of the slope below the house in which 
Washington resided. With this he left me- 


The night was clear and beautiful ; from the low 
hills far and near the camp bugle-calls and the sound 
of horses neighing filled the air. Uneasy and restless, 
I walked to and fro up and down the road below 
the little farm-house. Once or twice I fancied I saw 
the tall figure of the chief pass across the window- 
panes. A hundred yards away was the house I had 
just left. There sat a gallant gentleman awaiting 
death. Here, in the house above me, was he in whose 
hands lay his fate. I pitied him too, and wondered 
if in his place I could be sternly just. At my feet 
the little brook babbled in the night, while the camp 
noises slowly died away. Meantime, intent on my 
purpose, I tried to arrange in my mind what I would 
say or how plead a lost cause. I have often thus pre- 
arranged the mode of saying what some serious 
occasion made needful. I always get ready, but when 
the time comes I am apt to say things altogether 
different, and to find, too, that the wisdom of the 
minute is apt to be the better wisdom. 

At last I saw Hamilton approaching me through 
the gloom. “ Come,” he said. “ His Excellency will 
see you, but I fear it will be of no use. He himself 
would agree to a change in the form of death, but 
Generals Greene and Sullivan are strongly of opinion 
that to do so in the present state of exasperation 
would be unwise and impolitic. I cannot say what 
I should do were I he. I am glad, Wynne, that it is 
not I who have to decide. I lose my sense of the 
equities of life in the face of so sad a business. At 
least I would give him a gentleman’s death. The 


462 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


generals who tried the case say that to condemn a 
man as a spy, and not at last to deal with him as 
Hale was dealt with, would be impolitic, and unfair 
to men who w r ere as gallant as the poor fellow in 
yonder farm-house.” 

“ It is only too clear,” I said. 

“ Yes, they are right, I suppose j but it is a horrible 
business.” 

As we discussed, I went with him past the sentinels 
around the old stone house and through a hall, and 
to left into a large room. 

“The general sleeps here,” Hamilton said, in a 
lowered voice. “We have but these two apartments 5 
across the passage is his dining-room, which he uses 
as his office. Wait here,” and so saying, he left me. 
The room was large, some fifteen by eighteen feet, 
but so low^-ceiled that the Dutch builder had need to 
contrive a recess in the ceiling to permit of a place 
for the tall Dutch clock he had brought from Hol- 
land. Around the chimney-piece were Dutch tiles. 
Black Billy, the general’s servant, sat asleep in the 
corner, and two aides slumbered on the floor, tired 
out, I fancy. I walked to and fro over the creaking 
boards, and watched the Dutch clock. As it struck 
eleven the figure of Time, seated below the dial, swung 
a scythe and turned a tiny hour-glass. A bell rang • 
an orderly came in and woke up an aide : “ Despatch 
for West Point, sir, in haste.” The young fellow 
groaned, stuck the paper in his belt, and went out 
for his long night ride. 

At last my friend returned. “ The general will see 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 463 

you presently, Wynne, but it is a useless errand. 
Give me Andre’s letter.” With this he left me again, 
and I continued my impatient walk. In a quarter 
of an hour he came back. “ Come,” said he ; “I have 
done my best, but I have failed as I expected to fail. 
Speak your mind freely ; he likes frankness.” I went 
after him, and in a moment was in the farther room 
and alone with the chief. 

A huge fire of logs blazed on the great kitchen 
hearth, and at a table covered with maps and papers, 
neatly set in order, the general sat writing. 

He looked up, and with quiet courtesy said, 11 Take 
a seat, Captain Wynne. I must be held excused for 
a little.” I bowed and sat down, while he continued 
to write. 

His pen moved slowly, and he paused at times, and 
then went on apparently with the utmost delibera- 
tion. I was favourably placed to watch him without 
appearing to do so, his face being strongly lighted 
by the candles in front of him. He was dressed with 
his usual care, in a buff waistcoat and a blue-and-buff 
uniform, with powdered hair drawn back to a queue 
and carefully tied with black ribbon. 

The face, with its light-blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, 
and rather heavy nose above a strong jaw, was now 
grave and, I thought, stern. At least a half-hour 
went by before he pushed back his chair and looked 

up * 

I am fortunate as regards this conversation, since 
on my return I set it down in a diary which, how 
ever, has many gaps, and is elsewhere incomplete 


464 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


u Captain Wynne,” he said, “ I have refused to see 
several gentlemen in regard to this sad business, 
but I learn that Mr. Andre was your friend, and I 
have not forgotten your aunt’s timely aid at a mo- 
ment when it was sorely needed. For these reasons 
and at the earnest request of Captain Hamilton and 
the marquis, I am willing to listen to you. May I 
ask you to be brief ? ” He spoke slowly, as if weigh- 
ing his words. 

I replied that I was most grateful— that I owed it 
to Major Andre that I had not long ago endured the 
fate which was now to be his. 

“ Permit me, sir,” he said, “ to ask when this oc- 
curred.” 

I replied that it was when, at his Excellency’s 
desire, I had entered Philadelphia as a spy ; and then 
I went on briefly to relate what had happened. 

“ Sir,” he returned, “ you owed your danger to 
folly, not to what your duty brought. You were 
false, for the time, to that duty. But this does not 
concern us now. It may have served as a lesson, 
and I am free to admit that you did your country a 
great service. What now can I do for you ? As to 
this unhappy gentleman, his fate is out of my hands. 
I have read the letter which Captain Hamilton gave 
me.” As he spoke he took it from the table and 
deliberately read it again, while I watched him. 
Then he laid it down and looked up. I saw that his 
big, patient eyes were overfull as he spoke. 

“ I regret, sir, to have to refuse this most natural 
request ; I have told Mr. Hamilton that it is not to 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 465 


be thought of. Neither shall I reply. It is not fit- 
ting that I should do so, nor is it necessary or even 
proper that I assign reasons which must already be 
plain to every man of sense. Is that all ? ” 

I said, “ Your Excellency, may I ask but a minute 
more ? ” 

“ I am at your disposal, sir, for so long. What is it ?” 

I hesitated, and, I suspect, showed plainly in my 
face my doubt as to the propriety of what was most 
on my mind when I sought this interview. He in 
stantly guessed that I was embarrassed, and said, 
with the gentlest manner and a slight smile : 

“Ah, Mr. Wynne, there is nothing which can be 
done to save your friend, nor indeed to alter his 
fate ; but if you desire to say more do not hesitate. 
You have suffered much for the cause which is dear 
to us both. Go on, sir.’? 

Thus encouraged, I said, “ If on any pretext the 
execution can be delayed a week, I am ready to go 
with a friend ”— I counted on Jack— “to enter New 
York in disguise, and to bring out General Arnold. 
I have been his aide, I know all his habits, and I am 
confident that we shall succeed if only I can control 
near New York a detachment of tried men. I have 
thought over my plan, aud am willing to risk my life 
upon it.” 

“ You propose a gallant venture, sir, but it would 
be certain to fail; the service would lose another 
brave man, and I should seem to have been wanting 
in decision for no just or assignable cause.” 

I was profoundly disappointed; and in the grief 


30 


466 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


of my failure I forgot for a moment the august 
presence which imposed on all men the respect 
which no sovereign could have inspired. 

“My God! sir,” I exclaimed, “and this traitor 
must live unpunished, and a man who did but what 
he believed to be his duty must suffer a death of 
shame ! ” Then, half scared, I looked up, feeling 
that I had said too much. He had risen before I 
spoke, meaning, no doubt, to bring my visit to an 
end, and was standing with his back to the fire, his 
admirable figure giving the impression of greater 
height than was really his. 

When, after my passionate speech, I looked up, 
having of course also risen, his face wore a look 
that was more solemn than any face of man I have 
ever yet seen in all my length of years. 

“ There is a God, Mr. Wynne,” he said, “ who pun- 
ishes the traitor. Let us leave this man to the 
shame which every year must bring. Your scheme 
I cannot consider. I have no wish to conceal from 
you or from any gentleman what it has cost me to j 
do that which, as God lives, I believe to be right, j 
You, sir, have done your duty to your friend. And 
now may I ask of you not to prolong a too painful 
interview ? ” 

I bowed, saying, “ I cannot thank your Excellency 
too much for the kindness with which you have 
listened to a rash young man.” 

“You have said nothing, sir, which does not do 
you honour. Make my humble compliments to 
Mistress Wynne.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 467 


I bowed, and, backing a pace or two, was about 
to leave, when he said, “ Permit me to detain you 
a moment. Ask Mr. Harrison— the secretary— to 
come to me.” 

I obeyed, and then in some wonder stood still, 
waiting. 

“ Mr. Harrison, fetch me Captain Wynne’s papers.” 
A moment later he sat down again, wrote the free 
signature, “ Geo e Washington,” at the foot of a parch- 
ment, and gave it to me, saying, “ That boy Hamilton 
has been troubling me for a month about this business. 
The commission is but now come to hand from 
Congress. You will report, at your early conve- 
nience, as major, to the colonel of the Third Penn- 
sylvania foot ; I hope it will gratify your aunt. Ah, 
Colonel Hamilton,” for here the favourite aide en- 
tered, “ I have just signed Mr. Wynne’s commission.” 
Then he put a hand affectionately on the shoulder 
of the small, slight figure. “You will see that the 
orders are all given for the execution at noon. Not 
less than eighty files from each wing must attend. 
See that none of my staff be present, and that this 
house be kept closed to-morrow until night. I shall 
transact no business that is not such as to ask in- 
stant attention. See, in any case, that I am alone 
from eleven until one. Good-evening, Mr. Wynne; 
I hope that you will shortly honour me with your 
company at dinner. Pray, remember it, Mr. Ham- 
ilton.” 

I bowed and went out, overcome with the kindlf 
iess of this great and noble gentleman- 


468 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ He likes young men/ 7 said Hamilton to me long 
afterward. “An old officer would have been sent 
away with small comfort.” 

It was now late in the night, and, thinking to com- 
pose myself, I walked up and down the road and at 
last past the Dutch church, and up the hill between 
rows of huts and rarer tents. It was a clear, starlit 
night, and the noises of the great camp were for the 
most part stilled. A gentle slope carried me up the 
hill, back of Andre’s prison, and at the top I came out 
on a space clear of these camp homes, and stood 
awhile under the quiet of the star-peopled sky. I 
lighted my pipe with help of flint and steel, and, walk- 
ing to and fro, set myself resolutely to calm the storm 
of trouble and helpless dismay in which I had been 
for two weary days. At last, as I turned in my walk, i 
I came on two upright posts with a cross-beam above. 

It was the gallows. I moved aw T ay horror-stricken, 
and with swift steps went down the hill and regained 
Jack’s quarters. 

Of the horrible scene at noon on the 2d of October : 
I shall say very little. A too early death never took \ 
from earth a more amiable and accomplished soldier. 

I asked and had leave to stand by the door as he , 
came out. He paused, very white in his scarlet coat, , 
smiled, and said, “Thank you, Wynne; God bless 
you ! ” and went on, recognising with a bow the 
members of the court, and so with a firm step to his 
ignoble death. As I had promised, I fell in behind 
the sad procession to the top of the hill. No fairer 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 469 


scene could a man look upon for his last of earth. 
A long range of hills rose to the northward. On 
all sides, near and far, was the splendour of the 
autumn-tinted woods, and to west the land swept 
downward past the headquarters to where the cliffs 
rose above the Hudson. I can see it all now — the 
loveliness of nature, the waiting thousands, mute and 
pitiful. I shut my eyes and prayed for this passing 
soul. A deathful stillness came upon the assembled 
multitude. I heard Colonel Scammel read the sen- 
tence. Then there was the rumble of the cart, a low 
murmur broke forth, and the sound of moving steps 
was heard. It was over. The great assemblage of 
farmers and soldiers went away strangely silent, and 
many in tears. 

The effort I so earnestly desired to make for the 
capture of Arnold was afterward made by Sergeant 
Champe, but failed, as all men now know. Yet I am 
honestly of opinion that I should have succeeded. 

Years afterward I was walking along the Strand 
in London, when, looking up. I saw a man and 
woman approaching. It was Arnold with his wife. 
His face was thin and wasted, a countenance writ 
over with gloom and disappointment. His masculine 
vigour was gone. Cain could have borne no plainer 
marks of vain remorse. He looked straight before 
him. As I crossed the way, with no desire to meet 
him, I saw the woman look up at him, a strange, 
melancholy sweetness in the pale, worn face of our 
once beautiful Margaret. Her love was all that time 


47° Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


had left him; poor, broken, shunned, insulted, he was 
fast going to his grave. Where now he lies I know 
not. Did he repent with hitter tears on that gentle 
breast? God only knows. I walked on through the 
crowded street, and thought of the words of my great 
chief, “ There is a God who punishes the traitor.” 


XXVI 


HE long winter of 1780 and 1781, with its 
changeful fortunes in the South, went 
by without alteration in mine. There 
were constant alarms, and leaves of 
absence were not to be had. We drilled 
our men, marched hither and thither, and criticised 
our leaders over the winter camp-fires, envying the 
men who, under Williams, Marion, and Morgan, were 
eeping my Lord Cornwallis uncomfortably busy in 
the Carolinas. By the end of January we knew with 
joy of the thrashing Tarleton got at the Cowpens, 
and at last, in April, of the fight at Guilford. It 
began to dawn on the wiseacres of the camp-fires why 
we were now here and now there. In fact, we were 
no sooner hutted than we were on the march, if there 
were but the least excuse in the way of a bit of open 
weather, or a Tory raid. 

Sir Henry was kept in doubt as to whether our 
chief meant for New York from the north or from 
Jersey, and when at last he began to suspect that it 
was not a city but an army which he intended to 
strike, it was too late. Our brave old hawk, so long 
half asleep, as it looked, had begun to flutter his 
wings, and to contemplate one of those sudden swoops 




47 2 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

upon his prey which did to me attest the soldier ot 
genius within this patient, ceremonious gentleman. 
He was fast learning the art of war. 

At last, as I have said, even we who were but 
simple pawns in the game of empire knew in a mea- 
sure why we had been thus used to bother and detain 
this unlucky Sir Henry, who had failed to help Bur- 
goyne, and was now being well fooled again, to the 
ruin of Lord Cornwallis. 

But all of this was chiefly in the spring. The winter 
up to February was sad enough in our waiting camps, 
what with low diet, desertions, mutinies, and the 
typhus fever, which cost us many more men than 
we lost in battle. It brought us at last one day the 
pleasure of a visit from the great physician, Benjamin 
Rush, now come to Morristown to see after the sick, 
who were many. 

This gentleman was a prime favourite with my Aunt 
Gainor, although they had but one opinion in com- 
mon, and fought and scratched like the far-famed 
Irish cats. I think, too, the doctor liked your humble 
servant, chiefly because I admired and reverenced 
him for his learning and his unflinching love of his 
country. 

At this time we lay about Morristown in New 
Jersey. There was to be a great ball on the night of 
the doctor’s arrival. And just now, when his delicate 
features appeared at the door of our hut, Jack and I 
—for Jack was with me for a day— had used the 
last of our flour to powder our hair, and Jack was 
carefully tying my queue. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 473 


“Good-evening, Master Hugh, and you, John 
Warder. Can I have a bite?” 

We gave a shout of welcome, and offered him a 
herring— very dried it was— and one of Master Baker 
Ludwick’s hard biscuits. He said we were luxurious 
scamps with our powder, until we explained it to be 
the end of a rather mouldy bag of meal. He thought 
powdering a fine custom for young doctors, for it 
gave them a look of gray hair and wisdom ; and he 
was, as usual, amusing, cynical, and at times bitter. 

When we were seated and had his leave for a pipe< 
he told us there was now constant good news from 
the South, and that General Greene seemed to be 
somehow doing well, losing fights and winning 
strategetic victories. Probably it was more by luck 
than genius. By and by Gates would be heard from, 
and then we should see. On which my naughty Jack 
winked at me through the fog of his pipe smoke. 

“ And why,” said the doctor, u does your general 
keep so quiet? Was an army made to sit still?” 

I could not but remind him that the only lucky 
winter campaign of the war had been made by his 
Excellency, and that it was not usually possible to 
fight in the cold season ; not even Marlborough could 
do that. I was most respectful, you may be sure. 

He assured me that our general would never end 
the war ; for in revolutions it was not they who be- 
gan them who ever did bring them to auspicious 
conclusions. Our general, the doctor went on to tell 
us, was a weak man, and soon all would be of this 
opinion. 


474 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


As he spoke I saw Hamilton m the doorway, and 
I made haste to present him to the doctor. 

The young aide said modestly that he must venture 
to differ as to our chief. He was a man dull in talk, 
not entertaining, given to cautious silence, but surely 
not weak, only slow in judgment, although most de- 
cisive in action. 

“ No great soldier, sir,” said the doctor, “ and never 
will be.” 

“ He is learning the business, like the rest of us, 
Dr. Rush. ’T is a hard school, sir, but it is character 
that wins at last ; may I venture to say this man has 
character, and can restrain both his tongue and his 
own nature, which is quick to wrath.” 

u Nonsense ! ” cried the doctor. “ The whole coun* 
try is discontented. We should elect a commander- 
in-chief once a year.” 

In fact, many were of this strange opinion. Ham- 
ilton smiled, but made no reply. 

I saw Jack flush, and I shook my head at him. I 
thought what was said foolish and ignorant, but it 
became not men as young as we to contradict the 
doctor. It was Rush who, in 77, with Adams and 
others, sustained Gates, and put him in the Board 
of War, to the bewilderment of affairs. How deep 
he was in the scheme of that officer and Conway 
and Lee to displace our chief none know. My aunt 
insists he had naught to do with it. He was an 
honourable, honest man, but he w^as also a good, 
permanent hater, and sustained his hatreds with a 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 475 


fine escort of rancorous words, where Jack or I would 
have been profane and brief. 

The cabal broke up with Lee’s trial, and when 
Cadwalader shot Conway through the mouth, and,| 

as he said, stopped one d lying tongue, it did not 

change our doctor’s views. When he and Dr. Ship- 
pen, who was no Tory like the rest of his family, 
quarrelled, as all doctors do, Rush preferred charges, 
and was disgusted because his Excellency approved 
the acquittal with some not very agreeable comments. 
I think he never forgave the slight, but yet I liked 
him, and shall ever revere his memory as that of a 
man who deserved well of his country, and had the 
noble courage of his profession, as he showed amply 
in the great yellow-fever plague of ’93. 

He told me of my father as still much the same, 
and of my Aunt Gainor, and of Darthea, who, he 
thought, was troubled in mind, although why he 
knew not. She had long since ceased answering the 
messages we sent her through my aunt. Mr. W arder, 
he told me later, had given up his suit to Madam 
Peniston, and was now an outspoken Whig. The 
lady was disposed to seek refuge again with her De 
Lancey cousins in New York, but Darthea was ob- 
stinate, and not to be moved. And so we got all the 
gossip of our old town, and heard of Mrs. Arnold’s 
having been ordered to leave, and of how the doctor, 
like our own Wayne, had always distrusted her hus- 
band. Indeed, we had asked a thousand questions 
before we let the doctor get to my bed, and we our- 


476 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


selves, pulling on our sherry- vallies, a kind of over- 
alls, to protect our silk stockings from the mud, were 
away to the ball. 

Despite our many cares and former low diet, we 
danced till late in the night; the good people of 
Morristown contriving, I know not how, to give us 
such a supper as we had not had for many a day. I 
had the pleasure to converse, in their own tongue, 
with Comte de Rochambeau and the Due de Lauzun, 
who made me many compliments on my accent, and 
brought back to me, in this bright scene, the thought 
of her to whom I owed this and all else of what is 
best in me. 

It was indeed a gay and pleasant evening. Even 
our general seemed to forget the anxieties of war, 
and walked a minuet with Lady Stirling, and then 
with Mrs. Greene. Very quiet and courteous he was, 
but not greatly interested, or so it seemed to me. 

Again in May we were in motion, now here, now 
there ; and, with a skirmish or two, the summer was 
upon us. Meanwhile, as I have said, things went 
more happily in the South. 

Greene, continually beaten, was ever a better sol- 
dier; and at last, early in this summer of ’81, my 
Lord Cornwallis, driven to despair by incessant foes 
who led him a wearisome and fruitless chase through 
States not rich enough to feed him, turned from the 
“boy” Lafayette he so much despised, and finally 
sought rest and supplies on the seaboard at York- 
town, while the “ boy general,” planted in a position 
to command the peninsula at Malvern Hill, sat down 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 477 


to intrench and watch the older nobleman. I have no 
wish to write more history than is involved in my own 
humble fortunes, and I must leave those for whom 
I write these memoirs to read the story of the war 
on other pages than mine. Enough to say that when 
his Excellency was sure of the French fleet and knew 
of his lordship’s position, he made one of those swift 
decisions which contrasted strangely with his patient, 
and even elaborate, businesslike fashion of attending 
to all the minor affairs of life. Nor less secret and 
subtle was the way in which he carried out his plan 
of action. Leaving a force at West Point, he swept 
in haste through the Jerseys. 

Even the generals in immediate command knew 
nothing of his real intention until we were turned 
southward and hurried through the middle colonies. 
Then all men knew and wondered at the daring, and, 
as some thought, the rashness of this movement. 
Sir Henry had been well fooled to the end, for now 
it was far on in August. 

At Trenton I received an appointment which much 
amazed me. The army of our allies was marching 
with us, De Grasse, with a great fleet, was off Chesa- 
peake Bay ; despatches were coming and going daily. 
His Excellency had little knowledge of the French 
tongue, and had suffered for it in his youth. Mr. 
Duponceau, of the Marquis de Lafayette’s staff, was 
competent in both French and English, but, save one 
other officer, no one of his Excellency’s staff spoke 
and wrote French well ; and this aide was, as a com 
sequence, much overworked. 


478 Hugh Wyxine: Free Quaker 

Seeing this difficulty, which occasioned much con- 
fusion, the Due de Lauzun suggested that I be asked 
to serve as a special aide-de-camp. I believe I owed 
this chance, in part, to Lafayette, and also to the fact, 
stated elsewhere, that I had had the fortune to be 
presented to the duke at our famous ball in Morris- 
town, where he was pleased to talk with me in 
French. 

My appointment reached me on August 29. His 
Excellency was then with us at Trenton, despatching 
couriers, urging haste, and filling all men with the 
great hope which his audacious action excited. 

I was ordered to turn over my command, to join 
his Excellency's headquarters staff at Philadelphia, 
and there to report to Colonel Tilghman as extra aide- 
de-camp with the brevet rank of lieutenant-colonel. 
A note from Hamilton, now with his regiment, con- 
gratulated me, and related the cause of my unlooked- 
for promotion. 

Would you see what my lifelong friend Jack had 
to say? 

“I thank God for the happy fortune which has 
igain fallen to Hugh. Had it not been for his as- 
siduity in youth, and the love and respect he bore 
his mother, he would never have come by this pro- 
motion. Thus God rewards us for that we do without 
thought of profit.” Alas ! my dear J ack, th ose French 
lessons were sometimes but ungratefully learned. 

Early on September 2, having borrowed a horse 
from one of the staff, I was ferried over the Delaware, 
and, once across the river, pushed on in haste to my 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 479 


own dear city. I found the French about to enter 
the town. 

I had left home in 1777 a raw youth, and it was 
not without a sense of just pride that I returned a 
lieutenant-colonel at twenty-eight, having, as I felt, 
done my country honest service. 

Our allies halted in the suburbs to clean off the 
dust, and as they began their march I fell in beside 
De Lauzun. They made a brilliant show in neat 
white uniforms, colours flying and bands playing. 
Front street was densely crowded, and at Vine they 
turned westward to camp on the common at Centre 
Square. As they wheeled I bowed to the French 
gentlemen, and kept on down Front street to Arch, 
soon halting before my aunt’s door. The house was 
closed. All had gone forth to welcome the marching 
troops. I mounted again and rode down Second 
street to my own home, left my horse at the stable, 
and, seeing no one, passed into the sitting-room. My 
father was seated at the open window, but to see him 
dismayed me. He rose with an uneasy look as I 
went toward him. He was so wasted that his large 
features stood out gaunt and prominent. His clothes 
hung about him in folds, and his vast, bony frame 
was like a rack from which they seemed ready to fall. 

I caught him in my arms, and kissed his shrunken 
cheeks, utterly o vercome at the sight of this splendid 
body in ruins. Meanwhile he stayed quite passive, 
and at last pushed me off and looked at me steadily. 

“ It is Hugh,” he said. “ Thy mother will be glad 
to see thee.” 


480 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


I was shocked. This delusion of my mother's 
being alive greatly increased the grief I had in seeing 
this wreck of a strong, masterful man. 

I said something, I hardly know what. He re- 
peated, u Thy mother will be glad to see thee. She 
is upstairs — upstairs. She is with thy little sister. 
Ellin has been troublesome in the night.” 

After this he sat down and took no more notice 
of me. I stood watching him. The dead alone seemed 
to be alive to him : my mother, and the little sister 
who died thirty years back, and whose name I heard 
now from my father for the first time in all my life. 
As I stood amazed and disturbed at these resurrec- 
tions, he sat speechless, either looking out of the 
window in a dull way, or now and then at me with 
no larger interest. At last, with some difficulty 
as to finding words, he said: “ Thy mother wearies 
for thy letters. Thou hast been remiss not to 
write.” 

I said I had written him, as indeed I had, and with 
regularity, but with never an answer. After this he 
was long silent, and then said, “ I told her it was but 
for a week thou wert to be away. She thinks it 
more.” The long years of war were lost to him, and 
as though they had not been. 

I made a vain effort to recall him to the present 
and the living, telling him of the army and the war, 
and at last asked news of my aunt. He soon ceased 
to hear me, and his great head fell forward, the gray 
locks dropping over his forehead, as he sat breathing 
deeply and long. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 481 


I found it a sorry spectacle, and after giving some 
orders to Tom I went away. 

I learned later that my father never went out, 
but sat at the window all day with his pipe, drawing 
on it as if it were lighted, and heeding neither the 
friends who still came to see him nor the vacant days 
which went by. I had lost my father, even that little 
of his true self he had let me see. 

I went thence and reported to Colonel Tilghman 
at the City Tavern, where his Excellency had alighted, 
and after performing that duty made haste to see 
my aunt. 

There I found the love and tender welcome for 
which I so much yearned, and I also had news of 
Darthea. She, my aunt said, was well and still in 
the city, but out of spirits ; as to that 11 villain,” my 
cousin, my Aunt Gainor knew nothing, nor indeed 
Mistress Peniston much. Letters were difficult to 
get through our lines, and if he or Darthea still wrote, 
my aunt knew no more than I. When I told her in 
confidence of the errand on which, at my cousin’s 
prompting, General Arnold had sent me, she ex- 
claimed : 

II Could he have wished to get you into trouble ? 
It seems incredible, Hugh. I hope you may never 
meet.” 

11 Aunt Gainor,” said I, “ to meet that man is the 
dearest wish of my life.” 

“ The dearest ? ” 

“ Not quite,” said I, “ but it will be for me a happy 
hour.” 


31 


482 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

“ Then God forbid it, Hugh and it is most unlikely. 
You must go and see Darthea. 1 suppose you will 
hardly tarry here long— and get your epaulets, sir. 
I want to see my boy in his uniform. Bring Mr. 
Hamilton here, and the French gentlemen. Fetch 
some of them to dinner to-morrow.” 

Then she kissed me again, and told me how strong 
and well I looked, and so on, with all the kind pret- 
tiness of affectionate speech women keep for those 
they love. 

As I knew not when we should leave, nor how 
busy I might be while still in the city, I thought it 
well to talk to my aunt of my father’s sad condi 
tion, and of some other matters of moment. Of the 
deed so strangely come into my possession she also 
spoke. It seemed to be much on her mind. I still 
told her I cared little for the Welsh lands, and this 
was true. Nevertheless I discovered in myself no 
desire to be pleasant to Mr. Arthur Wynne, and I 
began to suspect with my aunt that more than Dar- 
thea, or stupid jealousy, or the memory of a blow, 
might be at the bottom of his disposition to injure me. 

It may seem strange to those who read what a 
quiet old fellow writes, that I should so frankly con- 
fess my hatred of my cousin. Nowadays men lie 
about one another, and stab with words, and no one 
resents it. Is the power to hate to the death fading 
out ? and are we the better for this ? It may be so. 
Think of the weary months in jail, of starvation, 
insult, and the miseries of cold, raggedness, filth, and 
fever. Think, too, of my father set against me, of 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 483 

the Mischianza business,— but for that I blame him 
not,— and, last, of his involving me in the vile net of 
Arnold’s treason. I could as soon forgive a snake 
1 that had bit me as this reptile. 

“Mr. James Wilson has the deed,” said my aunt; 
“and of that we shall learn more when Mr. Corn- 
wallis is took, and you come home a general. And 
: now go and see Darthea, and let me hear how many 
will be to dine, and send me, too, a half-dozen of 
good old wine from my brother’s cellar— the old 
Wynne Madeira. Decant it with care, and don’t 
trust that black animal Tom. Mind, sir ! ” 

Darthea lived but a little way from my aunt’s, and 
with my heart knocking at my ribs as it never had 
done at sight of levelled muskets, I found my way 
into Mistress Peniston’s parlour, and waited, as it 
seemed to me, an age. 

It was a large back room with an open fireplace 
and high-backed chairs, claw-toed tables bare of 
books or china, wdth the floor polished like glass. 
Penistons and De Lanceys, in hoop and hood, and 
liberal of neck and bosom, looked down on me. It 
was all stiff and formal, but to me pleasantly familiar. 
Would she never come? 

Then I heard a slow step on the stair, and the rustle 
of skirts, and here was Darthea, pale and grave, but 
more full in bud, and, I thought, more lovely in her 
maturing womanhood. 

She paused at the doorway, and made as it were 
to greet me with a formal curtsey, but then— how 
like her it did seem !— ran forward and gave me both 


484 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


her hands, saying: “You are welcome, Mr. Wynne. 
I am most glad to see you. You are all for the 
South, I hear. Is it not so ? ” 

I said yes, and how delightful it was to be here if 
but for a day or two ; and then, being pretty vain, 
must tell her of my good fortune. 

“ I am glad of my friend’s success, but I wish it 
were with the other side. Oh, I am a mighty Tory 
yet,” shaking her head. “I have seen your Mr. 
Washington. What a fine man! and favours Mr. 
Arnold a trifle.” 

“ Fie for shame ! ” said I, pleased to see her merry ; 
and then I went on to tell her the sad story of Andre, 
but not of what he told me concerning Arthur. The 
tears came to her eyes, although of course it was no 
new tale, and she went white again, so that I would 
have turned the talk aside, but she stopped me, and, 
hesitating a little, said : 

“Did that miserable treachery begin when Mr. 
Arnold was in the town?” 

I said it was thought to have done so. For my 
own part, I believed it began here, but just when I 
could not say. “But why do you ask?” I added, 
being for a reason curious. 

For a little she sat still, her hands, in delicate white 
lace mittens, on her lap. Then she spoke, at first not 
looking up. “Men are strange to me, Mr. Wynne. 
I suppose in war they must do things which in peace 
would be shameful.” 

I said yes, and began to wonder if she had divined 
that Arthur had been deep in that wretched plot. I 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 485 


do not know to this day. She kept her counsel if 
she did. Women see through us at times as if we 
were glass, and then again are caught by a man-trap 
that one would think must be perfectly visible. 

“ And was poor Peggy Shippen in it ? ” 

“Oh, no ! no ! ” I replied. 

“I am glad of that; but had I been she, I would 
never have seen him again— never ! never ! To think 
of life with one who is as black a creature as that 
man ! ” 

“ But, after all, he is her husband.” I wanted to 
see what she would say. 

“Her husband! Yes. But a husband without 
honour ! No ! no ! I should have to respect the man 
I loved, or love would be dead— dead ! Let us talk 
of something else. Poor Peggy ! Must you go ? ” 
she added, as I rose. “This horrid war! We may 
never meet again.” And then quickly, “How is 
Captain Blushes, and shall we see him too ? ” 

I thought not. Already the army was making 
for Chester, and so toward the Head of Elk. “ No j 
I must go.” On this she rose. 

“ Is it the same, Darthea, and am I to go away with 
no more hope than the years have brought me ? ” 

“Why,” she said, colouring, “do you make it so 
hard for me — your friend?” 

“ Do I make it hard ? ” 

“ Yes. I used to say no to men, and think no more 
of the thing or of them, but I am troubled ; and this 
awful war ! I am grown older, and to hurt a man— a 
man like you— gives me pain as it did not use to do.” 


486 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


" But you have not said no,” said I j “ and I am an 
obstinate man.” 

“ Why will you force me to say no ? Why should 
I? You know well enough what I think and feel. 
Why insist that I put it in words ? It were kinder 
—not to urge me.” 

It seemed a strange speech. I said I did not 
understand her. 

“ Then you had better go. I am engaged to Mr. 
Arthur Wynne, sir. I have had no word of him for 
a year, and can get no letter to him.” 

I might have given her Miss Franks’s letter, and 
poured out to her the story of his treachery and 
baseness. I may have been wrong, but something 
in me forbade it, and I preferred to wait yet longer. 

“Shall I get you a letter through the lines? I 
can.” 

“You are a strange man, Mr. Wynne, and an 
honest gentleman. No, you cannot do me this ser- 
vice. I thank you.” 

“ Then good-by ; and it is love to the end, Dartliea.” 

“ I wish you would go,” she said faintly. 

“ Good-by,” I repeated, and rose. 

“ Come and see me some day when you can,— not 
now, not this time,— and do not think ill of me.” 

“ Think ill of you ! Why should I ? ” 

“Yes ! yes ! ” 

I did not understand her, but I saw that she was 
shaken by some great emotion. Then she spoke : 

“ I have given my word, Mr. Wynne, and J do not 
lightly break it. Perhaps, like some men, you may 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 487 


think that women have no such sense of honour as 
men believe to be theirs.” 

“But do you love him, Darthea?” 
u He is not here to answer you,” she cried, looking 
up at me steadily, her eyes ablaze. “Nor will I. 
You have no right to question me— none ! ” 

“ I have 6very right,” I said. 

“ Oli, will you never go away V f And she stamped 
one little foot impatiently. “ If you don’t go I shall 
hate you, and I— I don’t want to hate you, Hugh 
Wynne.” 

I stood a moment, and once more the temptation 
to tell her all I knew was strong upon me, but, as 
she said, Arthur was not here ; first I must tell him 
face to face, and after that God alone knew what 
might come. I must tell him, too, with such proof 
as neither her love nor his subtlety could gainsay. 
And when this hour came — what then ? If I killed 
him, — and I meant to, — what of Darthea? That 
would end my slender chance, and yet I knew myself 
so surely as to be certain that, when the hour came, 
no human consideration would be listened to for a 
moment. I could hate in those days, and I did. If 
I had had the assured love of Darthea, I should per- 
haps have hesitated ; but not having it, I only longed 
once to have that man at the point of the sword. It 
is all very savage and brutal, but in those my young 
days men loved and hated as I do not think they do 
of late. It was a strong and a choleric generation, 
but we did some things for which the world should 
thank us. 


XXVII 



Y the 7th of September Marquis Lafayette 
was holding the neck of the peninsula of 
York. A more daring man than Corn- 
wallis would have tried a fall with this 
army, but he waited for a fleet to relieve 
him, and behold ! none came save that of De Grasse. 
By September 26 sixteen thousand men were added 
to those of the marquis, and lay about Williamsburg. 
Our quiet old hawk had my lord in his clutches, and 
meant no long delay. 

Not to be in advance of the army, his Excellency, 
who left Philadelphia before us, lingered a few days 
on the way to visit the home he had not seen for six 
long years, and we of the staff followed him the day 
after. Both in town and on the march through Del- 
aware I was occupied as I had never been in my life. 
The French marched with us, and to keep things 
straight duplicate orders in both tongues were 
needed, and there were notes, letters, and despatches 
to be done into French or English. An aide who 
spoke French fluently was apt to be in the saddle 
whenever his pen was not in use. 

The life was to me of advantage, because I came 
daily into contact with officers, young and old, who 

488 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 489 


had seen the finest company in Europe, and from 
whom there was much to learn. It is Chastellux, I 
think, who has said that Mr. Washington possessed 
the charm of such manners as were rare among our 
officers. With these gentlemen, our allies, the way of 
doing every little act of the life of society seemed to 
have been studied and taught, until these gracious 
and amiable forms were become, as one may say, a 
part of the man. 

No wonder they found us clumsy fellows. Too 
many of our gentry were not in the war, or were 
opposed to it. Many regiments were strangely of- 
ficered, and this, as Graydon says in his memoirs, 
was especially the case as to the New England troops. 
But a man with no manners and with brutal habits 
may fight as well as a marquis. 

Now toward the close of the war, if we were still 
as to looks but a Falstaffian contingent, the material 
in men and officers had been notably sifted, and was 
in all essential ways fit for the perilous service to 
which we w^ere about to address ourselves. 

At Mount Vernon we camped— we of the staff— 
in and out of the house, and were bountifully fed, 
nor did I ever see his Excellency more to advantage 
than here. He personally looked after our wants, 
and lost for a time much of the official reserve with 
which he guarded himself elsewhere. 

At table after dinner he was in the habit of asking 
one of his aides to propose toasts for him. The day 
before we left, as we were about to rise from table, 
Colonel Tilghman said, “ One more toast, with your 


49° Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


permission, Excellency,” and cried out, “My Lord 
Cornwallis, and may he enjoy the hospitalities of 
our army.” 

Our host laughed as he rarely did, saying, “We 
must first catch our fish, Mr. Tilghman.” 

I ventured to say, “ He is in the net already.” 

His Excellency, looking round at me, said gravely, 
“ Pray God the net hold good ! ” After I had offered 
the toast of Lady Washington’s health, and our 
thanks for the pleasant days of rest and good cheer, 
he left us, desiring Mr. Tilghman to see that we had 
wine enough. 

On the 14th we reached Williamsburg. The army 
rapidly came in by divisions, French and American. 
Before the 25th we had from the fleet cannon and 
intrenching-tools, and all our available force was to 
hand. 

I can make clear in a few words the situation of 
the enemy. The peninsula of York lies between the 
James and the York rivers. On the south bank of 
the latter sits the little town of York. Seven re- 
doubts surrounded it. The town was flanked right 
and left by deep ravines and creeks falling into the 
York River. Intrenchments, field-works, and abatis, 
with felled trees, lay to landward. 

Gloucester Point, on the opposite shore of the river, 
was well fortified, and before it lay a small force of 
British war-ships, the channel being obstructed lower 
down by sunken vessels. The French fleet held the 
river below the town, and we the peninsula. 

On the night of the 25th, after a brief visit to the 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 491 


fleet, our chief lay down in the open under a mul- 
berry-tree with one of its roots for a pillow, and slept 
well, as was audible enough to us who lay at a distance. 

That night his lordship abandoned his outworks 
and drew within the town. We seized these lines 
next day, losing Colonel Scammel, formerly of the 
staff, in whose amusing songs and gay talk our chief 
had used to take much pleasure. On the 28th the 
armies marched twelve miles down the peninsula, 
and camped two miles from the town, driving in the 
pickets and some parties of horse. 

By October 1, the weather being fine, we had com- 
pleted a half -moon of intrenchments, resting at each 
wing on the river. Two advanced redoubts we threw 
up were severely cannonaded, so as to interrupt the 
men at work. 

His Excellency, somewhat anxious, came out of his 
tent, and calling Mr. Tilghman and me, who were 
writing, rode forth, followed by his faithful black 
Billy, whom we used to credit with knowing more of 
what went on than did we of the staff. Mr. Evans, 
a chaplain, was fain to see more of the war than con- 
cerned him, and came after us. As we approached, 
Billy, riding behind me, said as the cannon-shot went 
over us : 

“ Dein redcoats is pointin' us mighty well.” 

Then a shot ricoehetted, striking the ground in^ 
front and covering us with dust. Mr. Evans, who 
was standing by, and had now seen quite enough of 
" it, said, “We shall all be killed,” and then looked 
ruefully at his new beaver, well dusted and dirty. 


492 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ You had better carry that home to your wife and 
children,” said the chief. “ This is not the place for 
you, sir.” 

Neither was it much to my own liking, and I was 
not sorry when we rode back. 

On the night of the 9th of October his Excellency 
put a match to the first gun, and for four days and 
nights a furious cannonade went on from both sides. 

Late on the night of the 10th Jack came to my 
tent, and we walked out to see this terrible spectacle, 
climbing a little hill which lay well away from our 
lines. For a time we were quite alone. 

A monstrous dome of smoke hung over the town. 
Now and then a gust of sea wind tore it apart, and 
through the rifts we saw the silver cup of the moon 
and the host of stars. We lay long on the hillock. 
I suppose the hour and the mighty fates involved 
made us serious and silent. Far away seventy can- 
non thundered from our works, and the enemy’s 
batteries roared their incessant fury of reply. 

Presently I said, “Jack, how still the heavens are, 
and under them this rage of war ! How strange ! ” 

“Yes,” said Jack; “once I said something of this 
tranquilness in the skies to our great Dr. Franklin. 
He is very patient with young fellows, but he said 
to me : ‘ Yes, it is a pleasing thing, even to be wrong 
about it. It is only to the eye of man that there is 
calm and peace in the heavens ; no shot of cannon 
can fly as these worlds fly, and comets whirl, and 
suns blaze; and if there is yonder, as with us, war 
and murder and ravage, none can say.’ It all comes 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 493 

back to me now,” said Jack, “and I thought to tell 
you.” 

“ It is a terrible sight,” said I, as the great tumult 
of sound grew louder. “Let us thank &od the cause 
is a just one ” 

“ And there are the stars again,” said Jack, “ and 
the moon.” And we were silent once more, watch- 
ing the death-struggle of a failing cause. 

Our own mad world was far other than at peace. 
The great bombs rose in vast curves overhead, with 
trails of light, and, seeming to hesitate in mid-air, 
exploded, or fell on town or ship or in the stream 
between. As we looked, awe-struck, hot shot set fire 
to the “Charon,” a forty-four-gun ship, nigh to 
Gloucester, and soon a red rush of fire twining about 
mast and spar rose in air, lighting the sublime spec- 
tacle, amid the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, 
and multitudinous inexplicable noises, through which 
we heard now and then the wild howl of a dog from 
some distant farm-yard. 

At last the war-ship blew up, and a wonderful 
strong light lighted the town, the river, and the camp. 
As it fell the dog bayed again, a long, sharp, waver- 
ing cry. 

This seemed to me to impress Jack Warder more 
- than anything else in this din of war. He said now 
and again, “ There is that dog,” and wondered what 
the beast thought of it all. It is curious upon what 
the minds of men fix on grave occasions. I meant 
to ask Jack why he spoke over and over of the dog 
when before us was the bloody close of a great his- 


494 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


toric tragedy : a king humbled j a young republic at 
sword-point with an ancient monarchy. 

It seemed to me a man’s mind must grow in the 
presence of such might of events. The hill, a half-mile 
from the lines, was a good vantage-ground whence 
to see and hear. Jack and I smoked many pipes, and, 
as he was not for duty in the trenches, lay here most 
of that cool October night, wrapped in our cloaks. 
Sometimes we talked 5 more often we were silent, 
and ever the great cannon roared from trench and 
bastion, or were quiet awhile to let their hot lips cool. 

Once Jack fell to talk of how he and I were changed 
from the quiet Quaker lads we had been, and did I 
remember our first fight, and Colonel Rupert Forest, 
and Master Dove? That greater master, War, since 
then had educated and broadened us. He was more 
philosophic than I, and liked thus to speculate ; but 
of Darthea he said never a word, though we spoke 
of many things that memorable night. 

At last, when it was near to dawn, Jack jumped 
up, crying, “ Oh, confound that dog ! ” He had, 
what I never had, some remnant of the superstitions 
of our ancestors, and I suspect that the howl of the 
poor beast troubled him. I guessed at this when he 
said presently, “ I suppose we shall have to carry the 
place by storm.” 

“ Now don’t tell me you will get hit,” said I. “ You 
always say that. There are enough dead men to set 
every dog in Virginia a-howling.” 

Jack laughed, but I had shamed him out of any 
desire to repeat his predictions of disaster, and wiih. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 495 


the signal-rockets in air, and the resounding thunder 
of this storm of war ever rising and falling, we went 
at last to our tents. 

For two or three days his Excellency kept me busy ; 
but since, except every third or fourth day, Jack had 
no active work, his diary at this time is very fully 
kept. I see from its pages that he thought over and 
over in this leisure of what we had so largely dis- 
cussed on that night when we lay upon the hill. 

“ October 11,” I find written. — “ Hugh and I had a 
long talk over our own lives. It is a good thing and 
wise at times to take stock, as merchants say, of one’s 
self and of one’s friends. Indeed, if a man could 
contrive a moral likeness of his inner self such as he 
may have of his body, and this at different ages, it 
were an interesting and perhaps, too, a useful thing. 
It might much surprise him as the years went on. 
I think of myself as not so changed as Hugh. I am 
indeed more shy. As time goes on I arrange to hide 
it. I am less ambitious. Duty seems to me more 
and more a thing which I must do by reason of habit, 
that being strong with me owing much to the con- 
stant example set by my friend’s life. If I have in 
me something of the woman’s nature, as Mistress 
Wynne used to declare, I do not now so much dislike 
the notion. It may explain why, as I mature, noth- 
ing in life seems to me so greatly to be desired as the 
love of my fellows. If I think a man I esteem has 
no affection for me, I will fetch and carry to get it. 
Thank God I need not for Hugh. For him I would 
give my life, should he want it, and what more can 


496 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

a man do for his friend ? Yes, there is a greater 
test, but of that I need not think, since she does not 
love me, nor ever could I think to win her love. 

“My Hugh is a big handsome fellow nowadays, 
budded to be of the bigness of his father, but cleaner 
fashioned, from early use of his muscles. He has 
the strong passions of these hot Welsh, but is disci- 
plined to control them, though not always. He is 
more serious of late, and has thoughts which surprise 
me, and show that his mind has grown. I used to 
think he was too abrupt with people, but he has a 
gift I have not— the power to capture the fine ways 
which these French gentlemen possess, so that nowa- 
days he has quite lost the stiff ways in which we 
were brought up. But this art I have not, nor ever 
shall have.” 

Now all this is more or less true, and as I have 
said whatever was ill of myself, I like to let another, 
if a too partial judge, say of me, for the flattery of 
our blood, what may one day pleasure my chddren 
to read. 

On the night of the 12th of October our second 
parallel was opened by Baron Steuben’s division, in 
which was Jack’s command. It brought us within 
three hundred yards of the enemy’s works. Here 
our people, while at the labour of digging, were 
greatly annoyed by the flanking fire of two redoubts, 
one on each side, and lying nearly as far out to right 
and left as were now our advanced trenches. 

On the 13th Colonel Tilghman came to ask me to 
write the needed orders for an assault on these two 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 497 


redoubts. He told me that Marquis Lafayette had 
asked that his own aide-de-camp, Captain Gimat, 
should lead the storming-party of Americans from 
the troops for duty on the 14th, but Lieutenant- 
Colonel Hamilton had insisted on his own right to 
this honourable risk, he being, on the day set for the 
assault, in command in the trenches. 

This officer, my lifelong friend, had, in February 
of ’81, resigned from the staff, of which resignation 
too much has been said. It in no way affected the 
regard for him which our chief entertained, and the 
occasion of his leaving the staff was not one, I 
thought, to justify my friend in so doing, as indeed 
I made bold to tell him. 

He had now written a spirited letter to our chief, 
claiming the right of command, as he had that day 
the tour of duty in the trenches. His Excellency, 
with his strong sense of justice, had decided in Mr. 
Hamilton’s favour, and it was thus settled that he 
should head our assaulting column, and the marquis 
have command of the whole detachment, which was 
to be - made up of picked men from the divisions for 
duty in our works. 

I wrote the required orders, and set them forth in 
the orderly-book. The same day toward nightfall 
Jack appeared at my tent. He said his company 
was selected to be of the assault, adding with a fine 
colour and very cheerful, that here in a packet were 
letters he had writ to his father and to my Aunt 
Gainor, and here, too, another — this with a little hesi- 
tation— for Miss Darthea. 


32 


498 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


I laughed, and said I was a bad person to be his 
executor, as I meant in some way to contrive to be 
of the party ; how, I did not yet know. He begged 
me not to risk myself on a business out of my line 
of duty, but I was firmly set as to the matter, and he 
went away more serious than I thought worth while. 
In fact, I was tired of the every-day sameness of 
staff-duty and incessant letter- writing. 

Later in the evening I was sent for to the tent of 
his Excellency. I found him with the Comtes de 
Deuxponts and de Rochambeau. I was wanted to 
act as interpreter. Although his Excellency could 
comprehend what was said, he possessed no such 
knowledge of French as to be able to speak it. 

The business was soon despatched, and as I lin- 
gered, the general asked what other matter needed 
attention. Upon this I replied that I greatly de- 
sired to be of the storming-party. 

He returned, “ I presume of course, sir, that you 
are not for duty on the 14th ? ” 

I said, “ No.” 

“ Then your business is with the staff. I am un- 
willing to permit gentlemen to step aside out of 
their work.” He spoke in his usual deliberate man- 
ner, and with a certain sternness such as he well 
knew how to assume. 

I saluted, but stood still a moment, and then said, 
“ I trust, Excellency, that I have fulfilled my duties 
to your satisfaction.” 

“ Entirely. I should have made it plain to you 
had it been otherwise.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 499 


u And I have never asked a favour of your Excel- 
lency. I have been twice wounded, have had no 
home leave for four years, and have spent five 
| months in a British jail” 

I saw a faint smile come over his grave face. 
“ You boys are all alike. Here is Colonel Hamilton 
in a rage because the marquis would have given his 
place to Captain Gimat, and now it is an obstinate 
Welshman must go and get into mischief. I wish 
the whole army had your spirit, sir.” 

I ventured to observe that Colonel Armand had 
been permitted to serve as a volunteer, and that I 
had hoped that I too should be allowed a like 
favour. 

His Excellency smiled, and returned, “As a vol- 
unteer, Mr. Wynne— well, as a volunteer. Ask Colo- 
nel Hamilton. I trust that is satisfactory. Are the 
orders and detail all made out ? ” 

I said yes, and, thanking him, went away. 

Colonel Hamilton, whom I saw early on the 14th, 
was as much surprised at the result of my request 
as was I, and was pleased to say he should be glad 
of my company, and would I be on hand in the 
trenches before dark? 

The French of the old regiment D' Auvergne, 
which that night w r on the right to be called D’Au- 
vergne sans taclie , were to carry the redoubt to the 
right of the enemy's line. The Baron de Viomenisle 
was to lead them. Gimat was to have a chance 
with us. 

A There are Connecticut men. and Massachusetts 


500 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


and Rhode Island men, with a reserve from Penn- 
sylvania. The North has the whole business,” said 
Hamilton, “and your friend Warder has the luck 
to be with us.” 

The redoubt Number Ten on the enemy’s left, and 
nearest the river, fell to us, and Hamilton by no 
means meant that we should be later in the work 
than our allies. 

I am forced to be thus particular because, although 
in God’s providence I knew it not, I was about to 
pass through another crisis of my adventurous life. 
Before dusk I was in the trenches, and lying dow T n 
amid a crowd of silent men. Hamilton walked to 
and fro among them, seeing that all were ready, and 
at last tied a piece of surgeons’ bandage around my 
left arm, a precaution also taken as to the men that 
they might be distinguished in the darkness from 
the enemy. 

Pioneers with fascines and ladders were a little 
later put out in front of the trenches, and w T ith them 
the sappers and axemen under Captain Kirkpatrick. 
Within the crowded trenches and behind them the 
detachment of four hundred men lay ready. 

It was cold, and a drizzling rain would have made 
it needful, under ordinary circumstances, to keep 
the pans of the muskets dry; but all loads were 
drawn, and the marquis meant to trust to the bayonet 
alone. Jack was afoot, and in his gay fashion was 
saying something merry to his men. I heard the 
marquis cry, “ Silence ! ” in queer English, and down 
the line I could hear officers repeating his order. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 501 


For a little while all was still. 

“ Cood-by,” said my Jack. His hand was damp, 
and shook. 

“ You dear old idiot ! n said I. 

I It was now close to eight, and of a sudden our 
cannon ceased. I dimly saw, a few yards away in 
the deep trench, the marquis looking back toward 
our camp. The enemy, .glad, I dare say, of a chance 

I to cool their guns, also stopped firing. I wished to 
heaven this horror of waiting were over. 

Then a rocket rose high in air over our camp. 
“ Ready, men ! ” said Hamilton, while I drew my 
long Hessian blade. 

Six bombs in quick succession rose and went over 
us. I heard the marquis cry out, “ En avant ! For- 
ward ! ” 

“ Forward, sappers ! n cried a voice in front. 

“ Come along, boys ! n cried Jack. And not giving 
the sappers more than time to scramble up, we were 
off in a swift rush through the darkness. The 
quickly formed line broke irregularly, as we ran 
over the space between us and the abatis, the sap- 
pers vainly trying to keep ahead. 

As we rushed forward, my legs serving me well, 
I saw that they in the redoubt knew what was 
coming. A dozen rockets went up, Bengal fires of 
a sudden lighted their works, a cannon-shot went 
close to my head, and all pandemonium seemed to 
break loose. 

At the stockade, an hundred feet from their 
works, our men pushed aside the sappers, and tore 


502 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


down the rude barrier, or tumbled over it. They 
were used to fences. Here Gimat was hurt, and 
Kirkpatrick of the pioneers, and a moment later 
Colonel Barber. 

The hundred feet beyond were passed at a run, 
and the men with fascines cast them into the ditch. 
It was already half full of the wreck the cannon had 
made in the earthwork. Wje jumped in, and out ; it 
was all mud and water. Ladders were set against 
the parapet, but the slope was now not abrupt, having 
been crumbled away by our guns, so that most of us 
scrambled up without delay. I saw Captain Hunt 
fall, the enemy firing wildly. If Sergeant Brown 
of the Fourth Connecticut, or Mansfield of the For* 
lorn Hope, were first on the parapet, I do not know. 
Hamilton got by me, and I saw him set a foot on the 
shoulder of a man, and jump on to the top of the 
redoubt. Why more or all were not killed seems to 
me a wonder. I think if the enemy had been cooler 
we had been easily disposed of. I saw the girl-boy 
leap down among the bayonets, and we were at once 
in a hurly-burly of redcoats, our men with and after 
us. 

For a little there was fierce resistance and a furi- 
ous struggle, of which I recall only a remembrance 
of smoke, red flashes, yells, and a confusion of men 
striking and thrusting. A big Hessian caught me 
a smart thrust in the left leg— no great hurt. An- 
other with his butt pretty nearly broke my left arm, 
as I put it up to save my head. I ran him through, 
and felt that they were giving way. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 503 


To left and right was still a mad struggle, and 
what with the Bengal fires still blazing, and a heap 
of brush in flames at one side of the redoubt, there 
was light enough to see. Near about me was a clear 
space, and a pause such as occurs now and then in 
such a scrimmage. There were still men who held 
back, and to whom, as I pushed on, I called, “ Come 
on ! We have them ! ” A great wind from the sea 
blew the smoke away, so that it was easy to see. As 
I called out to the men who hesitated on the outer 
slope, as some will, I heard before me a voice cry, 
“ This way, men ! ” and, turning, caught sight of the 
face of Arthur Wynne. He too saw and knew me. 
He uttered an oath, I remember, crying out, “At 
last ! n as I dashed at him. 

I heard ahead of me cries for “ Quarter ! quarter ! ” 
The mass of striving men had fallen back, and in 
fact the business was at an end. I saw Jack run 
from my left toward me, but he stood still when he 
saw what was happening, and instantly, as he came, 
Arthur and I crossed swords. Wha.t else chanced 
or who else came near I knew not. I saw for the 
time only that one face I so hated, for the heap of 
brush in the work was still blazing. 

As is true of every Wynne I ever knew, when in 
danger I became cool at once. I lost no time, but 
pressed him hard with a glad sense that he was no 
longer my master at the game. I meant to kill 
him, and as he fell back I knew that at last his hour 
had come. I think he too knew it. He fenced with 
caution, and was as cool as L Just as I touched 


504 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


him in the right shoulder I felt a wounded Hessian 
clutch my leg. I fell squarely backward, my eousm 
lunging savagely as I dropped. I had been done 
for had not Jack struck up his blade as I lay, call- 
ing out : 

“ Coward ! ” 

I was up in a moment, pretty savage, and caught 
sight of my Jack fencing with my man, as calm as 
if we were in old Pike’s gallery. As I stood pant- 
ing— it was but a moment— I saw Jack’s blade whip 
viciously round Arthur’s and pass through his 
breast, nearly to the guard. 

My cousin cried I know not what, fell to one side, 
and then in a heap across a dead grenadier. 

“ Better I than thou,” cried Jack, blowing hard. 
“ He will play no more tricks. Come on ! ” 

With a glance at my enemy I hurried past him 
over dead and wounded men, a cannon upset, mus- 
kets cast away, and what not. 

“ This way, Wynne,” said the marquis. u Oestfini ! 
Get those fellows together, gentlemen.” 

Our men were huddling the prisoners in a corner 
and collecting their arms A red-faced New Hamp- 
shire captain was angrily threatening Major Camp- 
bell, the commander of the redoubt, who had just sur- 
rendered. v Colonel Hamilton struck up the captain’s 
blade, or I do believe he would have killed the major. 
He was furious over the death of Colonel Scammel, 
who was greatly beloved, and had been killed by 
Hessians after having given up his sword. 

It was over, and I went back to see what had 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 505 


become of Arthur. He was alive, and having 
dragged himself to the inner wall of the redoubt, 
was now seated against it. Jack soon found a lan- 
tern, and by its light we looked at Arthur. He was 
covered with blood, but was conscious, and stared 
at me with dull eyes, without power to say a word. 

u Take care of him, Jack,” said I, and went away 
down the crumbled slope and through the broken 
abatis, while overhead the bombs howled with un- 
earthly noises and the cannonry broke out anew. 

I was still angry that I had not killed the man, 
and went off to my tent in no very happy state of 
mind, so tired in body that I could not sleep for 
hours. 

Says Jack, u October 15. — I can never cease to be 
thankful that, when we had them driven like scared 
sheep into the far side of the redoubt, I ran back to 
see what had become of Hugh. It was but a minute 
I had missed him, and when I saw him slip I had 
only just time to catch that devil Arthur Wynne’s 
blade. He was used in old days to play with me 
like a child, but either I am become more skilful or 
he was out of practice, for I knew pretty soon that 
he was delivered over to me, and had small chance 
to get away unhurt. If my friend had killed him,— 
and that was what he meant, I fear,— would Darthea 
ever have married Hugh ? I know not, but it has 
been ordered otherwise. There was indeed a way 
opened, as Friends say. A nice Quaker I am 
become ! ” 

I was not of his opinion that night. Just before 


506 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


reveille I fell into a broken slumber. I awakened 
in a sweat, having dreamed that I had put a sword 
through my cousin, and was troubled that Jack 
was to tell Darthea. Thus it came to my mind 
—dulled before this with anger and unsatisfied hate 
—that I had made a fortunate escape. The morn- 
ing brought wisdom. I was beginning to think 
that all was not well between Darthea and Arthur 
Wynne, and that to kill him would do anything but 
add to my chances with a woman so sensitive, nor 
Would it much improve matters that his death had 
come out of the unhappy chances of war. 

When in happier mood I began to dress at dawn, 

I found my left arm very stiff and sore. I must 
have been much distracted overnight not to have 
felt it, and not to have seen that I was seriously 
bruised ; my breeches were starched stiff with blood 
from a bayonet- prick. Jack’s quarters were on the . 
extreme right, and as soon as the lines broke after 
morning drill I rode over to find him. 

He told me that Dr. Rush was come to camp the 
day before with other surgeons, and that Arthur 
was in a tent and cared for by our good doctor, who 
informed Jack that his sword had traversed the right 
lung, but had not gone through, as it seemed to me 
it must have done. The doctor thought he might 
possibly get over it. Out of his affection for my 
aunt he would see that Arthur had such care as she 
would desire for one of her kin, but was it not a 
most unfortunate accident? 

“I assured him,” said Jack, “that it was most 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 507 


lamentable, but might have been worse — as I in- 
tended it should be/’ added Jack, with a grin. He 
then asked me had I heard of that good Free Qua- 
ker, Colonel Forest, who had taken Major Campbell, 
saying, “I advise thee to surrender, or thou wilt 

repent it, d thee ! ” to the delight of Hamilton, 

who must tell his Excellency that night, having 
supped with him on his return. 

I made haste to write to my aunt, and was able to 
send our letters North with the general’s despatches 
to Congress. I said nothing of my own encounter 
with Arthur, but made mention of Jack’s affair as 
one of the chances of war. 

Dr. Rush dressed my arm, and I went back to 
duty with the member in a sling, and aching like 
mad. His Excellency, seeing my condition, asked 
me if my right arm was in good order, but made no 
reference to the left. After I took his commands for 
the morning he said, seeing me limp, “Were you 
much hurt ? ” 

I said, “No ; I ran against something sharp in the 
bastion.” 

He smiled, and that was the end of the matter. 
Fair women and brave men were to his Excellency’s 
liking. 

This was my last of active warfare. The marquis 
tried his hand at a sally, and made ready too late to 
get away over the York River ; but the sally came 
to nothing, and the belated effort to run to still less. 

I neglected to say that the French, having come 
to the abatis, waited in line while the pioneers used 


508 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


their axes to clear it away. Meanwhile, thanks to 
too good discipline, they suffered severely. As we 
rushed the whole thing, we lost far less. “ It was 
very fine and en regie ” said Hamilton, “ but I like our 
way better.” And so, I think, do L 

The good doctor liked to come to my staff tent in 
those days, to talk to me or to others. He seemed 
to think it necessary to inform me of my cousin’s 
state, and I dare say thought me cool about him. 

“ And if, doctor, I had stuck him through the left 
side 1 ” said Jack, lying at ease on a bearskin in my 
tent. 

“ In that case,” said our doctor, in a quite profes- 
sional way, “ the heart or the great arteries had like 
enough been pierced.” 

“ And what then ? ” asked Jack of the doctor, who 
was sitting on the camp-bed. 

“ Probably death would have occurred.” 

On this Jack looked up with those innocent eyes, 
and, pushing back the blond locks, said: “It is a 
great thing to know anatomy. If only I had made 
a little study of that science, Dr. Rush, I might have 
had better success at this pig-sticking business we 
call war.” The sly humour of the fellow set Hamil- 
ton to laughing, but the doctor did not smile. 

“ It might have been better for Hugh’s cousin,” he 
said. 

“Yes,” said Jack, sweetly; “perhaps.” 

As they talked I was automatically putting into 
fine French a letter of his Excellency to Comte 
d’Estaing, and T took in readily what was passing. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 509 

When Jack said, “ Perhaps,” I cried out, “It would 
be a fine thing, doctor, to have all this saving know- 
ledge on both sides, so as to know where not to hurt 
one another.” 

Hamilton was on the side of Dr. Rush. “ It were 
more to the purpose,” he said, “ to sit down and not 
to go to war at all.” This was set forth demurely, 
the colonel seeing how serious a dose our fun was 
for the great physician, who did somewhat lack the 
capacity to discover the entertainment to be found 
in this manner of jesting. 

He returned gravely that this was his opinion, 
and that had he his way, war and drinking of spirits 
should alike cease. 

To this we agreed in part as one man, for of war 
we were tired enough. As to the other matter, we did 
not mention it. To think of such a revolution was too 
astonishing in those days, nor have we come to it yet. 

After that the doctor discussed Arthur’s case with 
much learning and evident satisfaction. I might 
like in a day or two to see Captain Wynne. I was 
of opinion that it would do him harm, and when the 
great doctor said, “ Perhaps, perhaps,” Jack began 
discreetly to talk war, and asked where was General 
Gates. 

But by this time our doctor had become cautious. 
His favourite commander was dismissed with a 
word or two, and so our chat ended, Mr. Hamilton 
and the physician going away together, each pleased 
with the other, and, despite some differences in pol- 
itics, to remain lifelong friends. 


510 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


On the 17th of October, the Marquis Cornwallis 
having had a stomach full of fighting, and having 
failed of his schemes to get away across the York 
River, beat a parley, and after some discussion 
signed the articles of capitulation. The soldiers 
were to remain prisoners in Virginia and Maryland, 
the officers were to return to Europe upon parole. 
The beaten army at two on the 19th came down the 
road between the French and our lines, with the 
colours in their cases, and the bands playing a Brit- 
ish march ; for it is of the etiquette of such occasions 
that the captured army play none but their own 
tunes. Some wag must have chose the air, for they 
marched by to the good old English music of “ The 
World Turned Upside Down”; such must have 
seemed sadly the case to these poor devils. 

As I was of the staff, I was privileged to see well 
this wonderful and glorious conclusion of a mighty 
strife. Our chief sat straight in the saddle, with a 
face no man could read, for in it was neither elation 
nor show of satisfaction, as the sullen ranks came 
near. 

At the head of the line rode General O’Hara. He 
paused beside our chief, and begged his Excellency 
to receive the excuses of my Lord Cornwallis, who 
was not well enough to be present, which no one 
believed nor thought a manly thing to do. 

His Excellency bowed, trusted it was not very 
serious, but would not receive General O’Hara’s 
sword. With quiet dignity he motioned him to 
deliver it to Major-General Lincoln, who now had 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 51 1 


these grateful amends for the misfortune of having 
had to surrender his own good blade at Charleston. 

After this the long array of chagrined and beaten 
men went by, and, returning to York, were put under 
guard. 

A day or two later a letter of my aunt’s informed 
me of the disorder my father’s condition had brought 
about on his tobacco- plantation in Maryland. This 
caused me to ask for leave, and, with the under- 
standing that I might be recalled at any time, I re- 
ceived permission to be absent two months. 

I set out on November 5 for Annapolis, with two 
horses and my servant. Arthur Wynne, being 
found unfit to go to Europe with the rest, was 
taken a week later by our doctor on a transport 
to the Head of Elk, and thence by coach to Phila- 
delphia. There, as I heard, the doctor took him to 
his own house, much amazed that Mistress Gainor 
would not receive him. Arthur won the good doc- 
tor, as he did most people, and, despite all expecta- 
tions, was said to be mending fast, being much 
petted by the Tory ladies ; but if Darthea had seen 
him or not I did not then learn. 

My affairs in Maryland, where we had many 
slaves and large interests, kept me busy until near 
the close of December, when I set out to rejoin the 
staff in Philadelphia, my leave being up. 

During this winter of ’81 and ’82 my duties were 
light, and except to write a few despatches daily, 
and to attend his Excellency on occasions of festivity, 
I had little to do save to look after my father’s affairs. 


512 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


It is now fit that I return to the narration of such 
things as immediately concern my personal interests. 
Arthur Wynne was able to ride out by the end of 
January, as I heard, for I did not chance to see him. 
My father remained much as he had been for a year. 

Darthea, to our great surprise, on Captain Wynne’s 
return became desirous to yield to her aunt and 
to go to New York. My aunt said she would get 
them a pass through our lines in the Jerseys j but 
this proving difficult, they stayed in and about 
the city, spending much time at their old home in 
Bristol. Darthea was so clearly unwilling to see 
me that I was fain to give it up, and accept what 
I could not better. When I said I was sorry she 
wished to go away, my Aunt Gainor replied that 
I was a fool, and would never be anything else. 
I asked why, but she was away from my question 
at once, and went on to tell me what officers were 
to dine with her that day, and did his Excellency 
like Madeira? and why was her doctor so fond of 
quoting Mr. Adams’s letters from Holland, where he 
now was on a mission, with his nasty sneers at 
Virginians and Mr. Washington? She gave me no 
time to reply. Indeed, this and much else I saw or 
heard in those days was quite beyond me. 

My aunt’s way of dismissing a question she liked 
not was to pour out matters which were quite irrel- 
evant, when to stop her was altogether past hope. 
I had learned to wait. She, at my desire, made Jack 
her aid in her affairs, as I was fully occupied with 
my father’s neglected business. Now, too, she was 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 5 1 3 


busy finding Jack a wife, and would tell me all about 
it, striding to and fro, and with vast shrewdness and 
humour discussing the young women we knew. 

“ Cat ” Ferguson was very humble, and the Chews 
in great favour with his Excellency. I was fain 
to dismiss my wonder as to Darthea, and, unable to 
recur to the question I had asked, I went away to 
headquarters in the great Chew house in Third 
street. 

The town was gone wild with feasting and din- 
ners, and as the general liked his staff to attend 
him, I had more of these engagements than I cared 
about. 

Arthur, still weak and on parole, lingered; but 
why he did not get permission to go to New York, 
as had been easy, I could not well understand. 

In February, ’82, I came home to my father’s one 
morning at an earlier hour than usual, and to my 
surprise heard my cousin’s voice. 

I fear, sir, I am not unders* >od. I came for th?> 
deed you promised me.” 

My poor father, a huge, wasted framework of a 
big man, was looking at him with lack-lustre eyes. 
He said, “ My wife will be with us presently. Wilt 
thou stay for dinner ? ” 

I went in at once, saying, “I am more than 
amazed, sir, to see you here. As to the deed you 
would have stolen—” 

“ What ! ” he cried. 

“ I said 1 stolen,’ sir. As to the deed you would 
have stolen from a man too feeble in mind to guard 


514 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


his own property, I have only this to say ” (amid con- 
stant duties it had gone from my mind) : “ I shall 
put no obstacle in the way of your seeing it.” 

“ I have no other purpose,” he said quietly— “ none. 
To you I could not go, and, sir, if you choose to 
consider my effort in any other light than an honest 
one, I have no more to say. We have enough causes 
of difference without that.” 

“ Quite enough,” said I. I was beginning to lose 
grip of my patience. “ Quite enough. That they were 
not settled long ago an accident alone prevented.” 

“I am not, sir, in a way fitly to answer you. 
Neither is this a place nor a presence for this dis- 
cussion.” 

11 At least we can agree as to that,” said I ; “ but I 
did not seek it. At my own leisure I shall have to 
ask you certain questions which, as a gentleman and 
a man of honour, you will find it hard to answer.” 

“I fail to comprehend,” he returned, with his 
grand air, looking all the better f$r his paleness. 

I said it was not now needful that he should, and 
that in future he would understand that he was no 
longer a welcome guest. 

“ As you please,” he said. 

I thought he showed little anxiety to hear at 
length what was in my mind. 

Meanwhile, as we spoke, my father looked va- 
cantly from me to him and from him to me, and at 
last, his old hospitable instincts coming uppermost, 
he said, “ Thou hast not asked thy cousin to take 
spirits, Hugh.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 515 


Arthur, smiling sadly, as I thought, said: “ Thank 
you, none for me. Good-day, Cousin Wynne,” and 
merely bowing to me, he went out, I ceremoniously 
opening the door. 

I had said no more than I intended to say $ I was 
resolutely bent upon telling this man what he seemed 
to me to be and what I knew of his baseness. To 
do this it was needful, above all, to find Delaney. 
After that, whether Darthea married my cousin or 
not, I meant that she should at last know what I 
knew. It was fair to her that some one should open 
her eyes to this man’s character. When away from 
her, hope, the friend of the absent, was ever with 
me 5 but once face to face with Darthea, to think of 
her as by any possibility mine became impossible. 
Yet from first to last I was firm in my purpose, for 
this was the way I was made, and so I am to this 
day. But whether I had loved her or not, I should 
have done my best out of mere friendship to set her 
free from the bonds in which she was held. 

I had heard of Delaney as being in the South, but 
whether he had come out alive from the tussles be- 
tween Morgan, Marion, and Tarleton, I knew not. 
On asking Colonel Harrison, the general’s secretary, 
he told me he thought he could discover his where- 
abouts. Next day he called to tell me that there 
was an officer of the name of Delaney at the London 
Inn, now called “The Flag,” on Front street, and 
that he had been asking for me. I had missed him 
by five minutes. He had called with despatches 
from Major-General Greene. 


516 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


To my joy this proved to be the man I wanted, 
nor was it surprising that he should thus luckily 
appear, since the war was over in the South, and a 
stream of officers was passing through Philadelphia 
daily to join the Northern army. 

For a moment he did not know me, but was de- 
lighted when I named myself. 

I said I had no time to lose, and asked him to 
meet me at my aunt’s in the afternoon. I much 
feared that Arthur would get away before I was 
ready to talk to him. 

Delaney had received my last letter and had an- 
swered it, but whither his reply went I cannot say. 
At all events, he had lingered here to find me. When 
we met at my Aunt Gainor’s that afternoon, it took 
but a few minutes to make clear to her the sad tale 
of Arthur’s visit to the jail. 

My friend had no sooner done than the old lady 
rose, and began as usual to walk about, saying : “You 
will excuse me ; I must think of this. Talk to Hugh.” 
What there was to think of I could not see. 

Delaney looked on amused, and he and I chatted. 
She was evidently much disturbed, and while the 
captain and I talked, I saw her move a chair, and 
pick up and set down some china beast. At last 
she said : “ Come in at nine to-night, Mr. Delaney. 
I want to think this over. I have still much I desire 
to ask you. It deeply concerns my nephew in a way 
I cannot now explain to you. May I have the priv- 
ilege of another half-hour ? ” 

Delaney bowed. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 517 


“ Of course I do not want you, Hugh,” she added. 

When you have known a woman as long as I had 
known my aunt, there are sometimes hints or warn- 
ings in her most casual expressions. When my 
aunt said I was not wanted that evening I knew at 
once that she was meditating something out of the 
common, but just what, I did not think to ask my- 
self. My Aunt Gainor was all her life fond of what 
she called inventing chances, a fine phrase, of which 
she was proud. In fact, this sturdy old spinster 
liked to interfere authoritatively in the affairs of 
men and women, and believed that for this she had 
a special talent, which in fact she discovered no in- 
clination to bury ; but what now she had in hand to 
do I knew not. 

She was deeply grieved for a season to find that 
her plans went awry, or that men were disappointed, 
or that women would not go her way. “ When she 
hurts you,” said Mrs. Ferguson, “ she is like a child, 
and has a dozen silly devices for doctoring your 
wounds. We have fought many times, and made 
up as often. There is no real malice in her,” which 
was true. 

Jack Warder once remarked in his lively way that 
Mistress Wynne had a richly coloured character. I 
fear it may have looked at times very black to some 
and very rose-tinted to others, but assuredly never 
gray in its tones, nor other than positive. 

With me she took all manner of liberties, and 
with Dartftea too, and if ever she were in doubt if it 
were well to meddle in our affairs I know not. A 


5 1 8 Hugh Wynne ; Free Quaker 


vast richness of human love and an urgent desire of 
rule lay underneath the life she showed the outer 
world of quadrille and dinners and gossip. 

When she hurt us, or, as Darthea said, broke her 
china in trying to wash it, she fell back on our love 
with a quite childlike astonishment that what was 
come out of affection should give rise to resentment. 

With a slight puzzle in my mind I went away 
with Delaney to dine at the London Coffee-house, 
which now showed our own new flag, where so often 
I had passed in under the cross of St. George. 

“We have a new St. George now,” said Mr. John 
Adams, in one of those ill-natured letters to Dr. 
Rush which filled my aunt with rage. “8 'ancte 
Washington , ora pro nobis” The Massachusetts 
statesman admired our grave and knightly St. 
George, but there are those who cannot fly a kite 
without the bobtail of a sneer— which is good wit, I 
think, but not my own ; it was Jack said that. 

When Delaney left me to call again upon my 
aunt, I little dreamed of what part she meant him 
to play. He left the town early next day, and had 
it not been for Jack I should not for a long while 
have known fully what an hour brought forth. 

“On the afternoon of February 28 of this 1782,” 
says Jack’s diary, “I got a note from Mistress 
Wynne asking me to see her on business at nine. 
I found with her, to my pleasure, the good fellow 
Delaney, and was able to thank him for the service 
he had done us all in his noble care of iMigh. We 
talked over our battles, and presently comes in 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 519 


Darthea, whom now we see but rarely, for reasons 
best known to herself. 

“ I do believe Hugh has given up his love-affair 
as a thing quite hopeless, and no wonder. I think 
she still sees that rascal of an English captain, and 
perhaps he will not have her keep up a closer friend- 
ship with such as no longer desire his own acquain- 
tance. 

“Mr. Delaney was, like all men, charmed with 
Miss Peniston, and the talk went on busily enough, 
the young woman in good spirits and the captain 
most amusing. 

“ By and by he spoke quite naturally of the hor- 
rors of their life in the provost’s prison, and upon 
this Darthea, becoming of a sudden seriously atten- 
tive, listened with fixed gaze. Our hostess, seeing 
her chance, said : x I meant to ask you more of that 
to-day, but my nephew hates even to hear of it. 
How long were you there?’ 

u 1 1 was taken at Germantown like Mr. Wynne, 
and was kept until June. After Wynne nearly 
killed that rascal, Cunningham, things were worse 
than ever.’ 

“ 1 And was Hugh so very ill ? ’ 

“ ‘ He could not have been worse to live at all.’ 

“‘And was there no inspection amidst all those 
horrors? Do you suppose Sir William knew noth- 
ing of them ? I can hardly credit that.’ 

u Darthea looked round at Mistress Wynne. She 
had been unusually silent. Now turning to Delaney, 
she said, with slow articulation: ‘I also am curious, 


520 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

Mr. Delaney. We heard many rumours and some 
unpleasant facts. Could Sir William Howe have 
known? I cannot think it.’ 

“‘But he must, after the inspections, and there 
were three to my knowledge/ 

Indeed V said Mistress Wynne. °T is most 
strange ! 7 

“ Delaney hesitated, not liking, I suppose, to men- 
tion Arthur, her cousin, of whose close relation to 
Darthea, however, he was not aware. 

“ ‘ And one/ Mistress Wynne went on, ‘ was, I hear, 
made by our kinsman/ 

“ 1 Yes/ said Delaney , 1 and that did certainly amaze 
me. Captain Wynne — 7 

“ ‘ Captain Wynne ! ’ exclaimed Darthea, and, turn- 
ing her head, she looked sharply at Mistress Wynne 
and then at me. I think that Delaney, being un- 
familiar with her habits of speech, did not notice 
how strange was the tone in which she added, ‘ We 
all know Mr. Arthur Wynne/ 

“ ‘ Indeed ! 7 said Delaney j 1 but of course I might 
have known that/ 

“ 1 Yes, yes ! I interrupted you. Pray, go on ; it is 
most interesting/ 

“ 1 Very/ said Mistress Wynne. And now I saw 
what a wicked trap our spinster-fox had laid for poor 
Darthea. Delaney, a bit puzzled, glanced at me. I 
made no sign. It must not stop here. 

“ ‘ It is a queer story, Miss Peniston, and not much 
to the credit of his Majesty’s officers/ 

“ ‘ What next ? 7 said Darthea. 



Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 521 


u 1 Oh, the tale is brief and brutal. I was seated 
on the straw one day, with Hugh’s head in my lap, 
putting water on his forehead and trying to quiet 
him, when the turnkey came in with an English 
officer. This gentleman looked about him at the few 
left alive, asked carelessly who broke the window- 
panes, and then suddenly seemed to notice Hugh. 
He asked who was this poor devil. The turnkey said, 
“ Name of Wynne, sir.” Then the captain stood still 
a moment, staring at us, and, as if curious, bent down, 
asking me what Hugh was saying. Now my poor 
friend was muttering over and over, “ Dorothea! 
Dorothea !”— some woman’s name, I suppose, but 
what woman he never told me.’ 

“ At this I saw Darthea flush, but perhaps remem- 
bering that Mr. Delaney might know her only as 
Miss Peniston, which was the fact, she controlled 
herself and said quickly : ‘He asked his name ? Are 
you sure he asked his name? Could there have 
been no mistake?’ 

“Delaney looked the surprise he no doubt felt, 
and replied, ‘Yes; of that I am sure.’ 

“ ‘ Do you think,’ said Darthea, ‘ he knew how ill 
Mr. Hugh Wynne was?’ 

“ ‘ Certainly ; I heard the turnkey tell him that a 
day or two would see Hugh in the potter’s field with 
the rest. The doctor had said as much. This was 
true ; he had told me it was useless for him to return, 
and indeed I thought so too. They buried a half- 
dozen a day. When told that this man Wynne had 
jail-fever, the captain seemed in haste to leave. At the 


522 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


door he turned and took another look at Hugh, and 
then went out. I asked his name next day, but the 
turnkey laughed, and said it was none of my busi- 
ness. I had a fancy that the inspector desired to 
remain unknown. I was sure of this when, a few 
days after, I described the officer to Hugh, who was 
then quite himself. When Hugh said at last, “Had 
he a scar over the left eye? ” and I said he had, Hugh 
cried out in a rage that it was his cousin, and would 
talk of nothing else for days. I fear there can be no 
doubt that the inspecting officer was Captain Arthur 
Wynne.’ 

“‘Horrible!’ exclaimed Mistress Wynne. ‘In- 
credible ! ’ 

“ ‘ Yes; it seems to me a quite inconceivable thing, 
but I am certain, though the man looked a gentle- 
man all over.’ 

“‘He looked a gentleman all over,’ said Darthea, 
with strange deliberateness of speech. 

“This while Mistress Wynne sat drawn up, her 
face set, and one hand moving on the arm of the 
chair, just the same queer trick her brother had. As 
for me, I watched Darthea. It was a merciless plot, 
and may have been needed; but in truth the way of 
it was cruel, and my heart bled for her I loved. 

“ As she spoke her tones were so strange that Mr. 
Delaney, who was clearly but an innocent though 
sharp tool, said: ‘I beg pardon, Miss Peniston. These 
sad stories are too dreadful to repeat. Miss Wynne 
would have it — ’ 

“ But Darthea was now quite lost to the common 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 523 

ways of life. She went on like a person questioning 
herself, as it sounded to me. ‘ Arthur Wynne asked 
his name. Is that so ? 7 

“ Delaney said , 4 Yes/ now, as I saw, quite troubled, 
and wishing himself out of it, I dare say. 

“ ‘ And he knew he was in rags, starved, dying, 
and he left him ? 7 continued Darthea. ‘ He left him 
—to die.’ 

“‘Yes; but—’ 

“‘No matter. I must hear all— all! ’ she cried 
sharply— ‘ all ! I am the person most concerned 

“ ‘ Darthea ! ’ then exclaimed Miss Wynne, alarmed, 
I suppose, at her wild manner and breaking voice. 

“But Darthea went on. ‘This is my business, 
madam. You are sure, sir? This is no time to 
trifle. I— I am— I must know ! I must know ! Would 
you say this to Captain Wynne were he here? An- 
swer me, sir ! ’ 

“ ‘ Certainly I would, Miss Peniston.’ 

“ ‘ Mistress Wynne/ said Darthea, rising, ‘ I have 
been brought here to let a stranger see my— my 
weakness. It is plain. Did you think I could hide 
it, madam ? Pardon me, sir. You have done me a 
cruel service. I— I thank you. I bid you good- 
evening, Mistress Wynne. Was there no other way, 
no kinder way, to tell me ? Will you take me home, 
Jack? I— I am tired/ 

“We had all risen with her at the beginning of 
this last speech, I troubled, Miss Wynne very red, 
and only fit to say over and over, ‘ Darthea ! Darthea ! 9 
Mr. Delaney annoyed, and lacking knowledge of the 


524 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


situation; all of us awkward and confused save 
Darthea, who passed out into the hall, followed by 
Miss Wynne, and saying, as she went forth, ‘ I will 
never forgive you, madam, never ! never ! You are 
a wicked old woman ! I shall never speak to you 
again. I did not think it/ 

u I walked in silence beside her to Mrs. Peniston’s 
home. 1 Thank you, Jack/ said she, in a sweet, low 
voice. ‘You did not know, did you, of this sad 
story ? ’ 

“ 1 Yes, dear lady, but of this disgusting plot, no/ 

“ 1 But why did you, who are my friend, and Mr. 
Hugh Wynne, and all of you, leave me in the dark 
as to this— this man!’ 

“ I said quickly that it was not well to have told 
her until Mr. Delaney could be found. He had but 
just now come. She had seemed to trust Captain 
Wynne’s story ; Hugh’s was but the hearsay of a 
man just out of a deadly fever. We had waited. 

“As I spoke, she stood with her calash bonnet ’ 
fallen back, clear to see by the full moonlight, and 
looking with intent face across Arch street, as it 
might be with envy of the untroubled dead of gen- 1 
erations who lay around the meeting-house. As I 
ended, she said: 

“ ‘ I have been a fool, Jack, but I loved him ; indeed 
I did. Is there more ? I know Hugh hates him. Is 
there more?’ 

“ 1 Too much, too much, Darthea,’ I said. 

“ 1 Then come in. I must hear all— all/ And she 
knocked impatiently. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 525 


“ Presently we were in the parlour. ‘ Fetch a light,’ 
she said to the black who opened for us. When we 
were alone and seated, she said quietly: ‘Jack, you 
are my only friend. I do trust xjou — oh, entirely. 
Now what is it? I must know all. Why has Hugh 
Wynne been silent ? It is not like him/ 

“ 1 1 have already told you why. Partly because, 
Darthea, you were away, or would not see us. That 
you know. Partly because Hugh had only his own 
word to give ; but this I have told you/ 

“ ‘ Yes, yes/ she cried ; ‘ but what else ? ’ 

“ ‘ 1 think/ said I, ‘ knowing him well, that Hugh 
meant, when once he had Delaney’s evidence, to tell 
his cousin face to face, and so force him to release 
you/ 

“‘That is my business, not his/ she broke in. 
‘What has Hugh Wynne to do with it? Am I a 
child ? ’ 

“ ‘ It had been the kinder and the manlier way/ 
said I. ‘ Now there is no need ; but Hugh will be 
furious with his aunt/ 

“ ‘ I am glad of that. What else is there ? You 
are hiding something/ 

“ ‘ There was that scene in the garden, Darthea/ 

“She coloured at this. ‘Yes, I know; but there 
were reasonable excuses for that, and no one had 
time to think/ 

“ ‘ Two people had, Darthea/ 

“ ‘ We will let that pass, Jack. Don’t play with 
me.’ 

“ Then, driven to the wall, so to speak, I told her 


526 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


of tlie sad revelation Andre had made to Hugh, and 
how, being Hugh’s enemy, Arthur had been base 
enough to involve' him in an affair which might have 
been his ruin. 

“ 1 Yes, yes/ she said, 1 1 see j but who could know, 
or who think to use such knowledge 1 ’ 

u I was taken aback at her seeming to have any 
doubt. I coldly set myself to tell her of Arthur’s 
double dealing about the estate, and of how he 
had made Hugh’s father believe he was minded 
to consider the ways of Friends, and at last of how 
he had borrowed money and had set poor Hugh’s 
half-demented father against him. I did not spare 
her or him, and the half of what I said I have not 
set down. The Arnold business I did return to, see- 
ing that it struck her, or seemed to, less than it did 
me ; for to my mind it was the worst. 

11 1 Darthea/ I said, ‘how could a man of honour 
or even of good feeling put any gentleman in such 
peril of worse than death ? There were Tories enough 
to have done his shameful errand. But oh, dear 
Darthea, to suggest to send on such business an open, 
frank enemy,— his cousin too,— that was too bad for 
the lowest and vilest ! 1 

“ 1 Hush ! ’ she said, ‘ I know enough. You have 
been both brave and good. You are the best man I 
know, Jack Warder, and the kindest. I wish I loved 
you. I am not worthy of you. Now go away.’ 

“I obeyed her, and this was so far the end of a 
miserable affair. What Hugh will say to Miss Wynne, 
God knows. I have given a thorough rascal his 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 527 


dues ; but I cannot do this and not tell him to his 
face what I have said behind his back. 

“ This was at night, but I had no better counsel in 
the morning. 

“I went to find Mr. Delaney, but he was gone, 
having, as I heard later, put on paper what he had 
seen and heard in the Provostry.'* 


XXVIII 


HEN,” continues Jack, “ I found Delaney 
had gone away, I was in a quandary. 
I by no means desired to go alone to 
see Captain Wynne. At last I made 
up my mind to ask Hugh. If there 
came a quarrel it should be mine. I resolved there 
should be no fight if I could help it, and that there 
might be trouble if Hugh were first to see his cousin 
I felt sure. The small sword was out of the ques- 
tion, but the pistol was not. I intended no such 
ending, and believed I had the matter well in my 
own hands. When I found Hugh at the quarters I 
told him quietly the whole story. 

“ That he was in a mad rage at his aunt I saw. I 
hate to see Hugh smile in a certain way he has, with 
his lips set close. He said nothing save that he 
would go with me, and that I was altogether in the 
right. He was reluctant to promise he would leave 
me to speak alone, but at last I did get him to say so. 

“Mr. Arthur Wynne was alone in his room at the 
inn, and would see us. He was writing, and turned 
from his table, rising as we entered. He looked red 
and angry, in a soiled dressing-gown, and I thought 
had been drinking. He did not ask us to be seated, 
528 



Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 529 

and we remained standing until our unpleasant talk 
came to a close. 

“He said at once, ‘My good cousin, I presume I 
owe to you the note I have had from Miss Peniston 
to-day.’ 

“ ‘ You do not,’ said Hugh, not looking at all dis- 
pleased. 

“ ‘ Indeed ? I had hoped you had come to offer me 
the only satisfaction in life your slanders have left 
me. My health is no longer such as to forbid the use 
of a pistol.’ 

“ ‘ Pardon me,’ said I, ‘ this is my affair, and not 
Mr. Wynne’s. I have had the honour of late to hear 
Mr. Delaney relate what passed in the jail.’ 

“ ‘ Have you, indeed ? An old story,’ said Arthur 
Wynne. 

“ ‘ None the less a nasty one. I had also the plea- 
sure to tell Miss Peniston that you suggested to the 
traitor Arnold to use my friend’s known loyalty as 
a safe means of getting to Sir Henry Clinton a letter 
which was presumably a despatch as to exchange of 
prisoners, but was really intended to convey to Sir 
Henry the news that the scoundrel Arnold was will 
ing to sell his soul and betray his country.’ 

“ ‘ Who told you this nonsense ? ’ said the captain, 
coming toward us. 

“‘Major Andre,’ said I. ‘You may have my 
friend’s word for that.’ 

“ ‘ It is a lie ! * he cried. 

A ‘ Men about to die do not lie, Mr. Wynne. It m 


true . 3 


530 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“The man’s face changed, and he got that slack 
look about the jaw I have heard Hugh describe. To 
my astonishment he did not further insist on his 
denial, but said coldly, ‘ And what then ? ’ 

“ 1 Nothing,’ said I. 1 Having told what I knew to 
a woman, I had no mind to have you say I had 
slandered you behind your back. That is all.’ 

“ ‘ Is it, indeed ? And which of you will give me 
the honour of your company to-morrow ? ’ 

“ ‘ Neither,’ said I. ‘ We do not meet men like you.’ 
“ His face flushed. ‘ Coward ! ’ he said. 

“ ‘ If I am that,’ said I, pretty cool, and shaking a 
little after my silly way, ‘you know best, and will 
remember, I fancy, for many a day. Good-morning, 
sir.’ 

“ On this he cried out, ‘ By ! this shall not 

pass ! I— I will post you in every inn in town, and 
my cousin too. No man shall dare—’ 

“ ‘ Stop a little,’ said Hugh. ‘ If it comes to that 
I shall know what to do, and well enough. I have 
no desire to put my own blood to open shame, but 
if this matter goes further, I shall publish Mr. De- 
laney’s statement, and that, sir, will close to you 
every gentleman’s house here and in London too.’ 

“ ‘ And shall you like it better to have it known 
that you were General Arnold’s agent ? ’ 

“ I saw Hugh’s face lose its quiet look, and again 
he smiled. ‘ In that case,’ he said, ‘ I should tell my 
own story and Mr. Andre’s to his Excellency, and 
then, my good cousin, I should kill you like a mad 
dog, and with no ceremony of a duel. You warned 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 531 


me once when I was a mere boy. It is my turn now. 
As there is a God in heaven, I will do as I have 
said.’ 

“ ‘ Two can play at that game/ said Arthur. Hugh 
made no reply. 

u And on this we left the man standing, and went 
forth without another word. 

“ ‘ I think his fangs are drawn/ said Hugh. And 
indeed that was my opinion. I made up my mind, 
however, that at the least unpleasant rumour of any 
kind, I would take such a hand in the matter as would 
save Hugh from having to go to extremities.” 

With the date of a week or so later I find added : 
u The man thought better of it, I dare say, when the 
drink wore off ; how much of his folly was due to 
that I cannot tell. It was plain that my dear Dar- 
thea had let him go at last. Was it because her sweet 
pity distressed her to wound a man once dear that 
she was held so long in this bondage ? or was it that 
absence, said to be the enemy of love, was, in a 
woman of her sense of honour, a reason why she 
should not break her word until she had a more full 
assurance of being right ? 

“ I think he slowly lost his place in the heart won 
when Darthea was younger, and perhaps carried 
away by vain notions, which lost value as time went 
on. Such men have for the best of women a charm 
we cannot understand.” 

I have left Jack to tell a part of my life which I 
am glad to leave to another than I. I heard no 
more of my cousin except that he had made up 


532 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

his mind to go home under his parole. This did not 
fill me with grief. I had the sense to know that for 
many a day Darthea were better left alone. 

My Aunt Gainor had recovered from the remorse 
which, as usual with her, followed upon some futile 
attempt to improve the machinery of other folks’ 
fates. In fact, although Darthea closed her doors 
upon Mistress Wynne and would on no account see 
her, my aunt was already beginning to be pleased 
with the abominable trap she had set, and was good 
enough to tell me as much. 

For three days after Jack had informed me as to 
the drama my aunt had planned I stayed away from 
her, being myself in no very happy state of mind, 
and unwilling to trust myself. When at last, of a 
Saturday afternoon, I came in on Mistress Wynne, 
she got up from her accounts, which she kept with 
care, saying at once : “ It is a week since you were 
here, sir, and of course I know why. That long- 
tongued girl-boy has been prating, and your lordship 
is pleased to be angry, and Darthea is worse, and will 
not see me because I had the courage to do what you 
were afraid to do.” 

“ Upon my word, Aunt Gainor,” said I, “you are 
a little too bad. I was here four days ago, and have 
I said an impatient word? If I was angry I have 
had no chance to say so.” Nor had I. 

“ Then if you are not angry you ought to be.” She 
seemed to me bigger than ever, and to have more 
nose than usual. “You ought to be. I made a fool 
of myself, and all for you 5 and because I have 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 533 


burned my fingers in pulling your goose out of the 
fire, you must get into a passion. You have no need 
to smile, sir. I suppose it were finer to say chestnuts, 
but a goose she is, and always will be, and I love her 
like a child. Your soft-hearted Excellency was to 
see me last week, and saying that he had no children, 
I, that have no right to any, said I was as ill off, and 
we looked at each other and said nothing for a little, 
because God had given to neither the completeness 
of life. Is he stern, sir? I don’t think it. We 
talked of General Arnold, and of poor Peggy his 
wife, and as to all this he was willing enough, and 
frank too. Despite Dr. Rush and Mr. Adams, he 
can talk well when he has a mind to. But when I 
said a word of poor Andre, I had better have kept 
my tongue quiet, for he said quickly: ‘Mistress 
Wynne, that is a matter I will never hear of willingly. 
I ask your pardon, madam.’ I could do no more 
than excuse my want of thought, and we fell to dis- 
cussing tobacco-growing.” 

“But what more of Darthea?” said I, for all the 
generals in the world were to me as nothing com- 
pared with one little woman. 

“ Oh, there is no more, except that I am unhappy. 
I will never again be kind to anybody. I am only a 
miserable, useless old maid.” And here she began to 
cry, and to wet a fine lace handkerchief. 

Just now comes in saucy Miss Margaret Chew, — 
we call her Peggy,— and is rather flustered by my 
aunt in tears. “ O Mistress Wynne,” she says, “ I beg 
pardon. I—” 


534 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ What for ? ” says my aunt. “ My Manx cat has 
eaten the raspberry jam. That is all.” Whereon we 
laugh, and the little lady, being pretty-spoken, says 
she wishes she was Mistress Wynne’s cat, and while 
my aunt dries her eyes goes on to say, “Here is a 
note for you to dine with us and Mr. Washington, 
and I was bid write it, and so I did on the back of 
the queen of hearts for a compliment, madam,” and 
with this she drops a curtsey. 

My aunt, liking beauty and wit combined, kissed 
her, and said she would come. 

This diversion cleared the sky, which much needed 
clearing, and Miss Chew being gone away, my aunt 
detained me who would willingly have followed her. 

After that I comforted her a little as to Darthea, 
and said she could no more keep up being angry than 
a June sky could keep cloudy, and that, after all, it 
was just as well Darthea knew the worst of the man. 
I related, too, what Jack had told, and said that now 
my cousin would, I thought, go away, and we— thank 
Heaven !— be quit of him forever. 

“And yet I must see him once,” she said, “and 
you too. I have put that deed in the hands of James 
Wilson, and he has taken counsel of our friend Mr. 
Attorney-General Chew.” 

“I suppose you are right, Aunt Gainor,” said I. 
“ The man is bad past belief, but he has lost Darthea, 
which is as much punishment as I or any could de- 
sire. I think with you this estate business should 
some way be settled, and if it is to be his, I have no 
mind to leave the thing in doubt, and if it be mine 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 535 


or my father’s, I for one do not want it. I have 
enough, and no wish to muddle away my life as a 
Welsh squire.” 

“We shall see,” said my aunt, not at all of my 
opinion, as I readily perceived. “We shall see. He 
shall have justice at our hands, and James Wilson 
will be here at four to-morrow, and you too, Hugh, 
whether you like it or not.” 

I did not, and I said so. She had written my 
cousin that she desired to see him concerning the 
deed. Whether from interest, or what, I know not, 
he had replied that he would be with her at half- 
past four. 

Thus it happened that I was to see Arthur Wynne 
once more, and indeed I felt that my aunt was right, 
and that it were as well all our accounts with this 
man were closed. Just how this would come about 
I knew not yet, but closed they should be ; as to that 
I was fully advised in my own mind. 


XXIX 



T four punctually arrived my friend the 
famous lawyer. He was not a hand- 
some man, but possessed a certain dis- 
tinction, which he owed to a strong face, 
well-modelled head, and a neatly pow- 


dered wig, the hair being tied back, after the fashion 
of the bar, in a black queue-bag with, at the end, a 
broad black ribbon. He took the snuff my aunt 
offered, carefully dusting the excess off the collar of 
his brown velvet coat, and sat down, saying, as he 
took some papers from a silk bag, that it was alto- 
gether an interesting and curious question, this we 
had set before him. And why had we held this deed 
so long and said nothing ? 

I told him of my father’s and my grandfather’s 
disinclination to open the matter, and why and how 
the estate had seemed of little worth, but was now, 
as I believed, more valuable. 

Hearing this he began to question my aunt and 
me. He learned from our replies that at the time 
I got the deed from my father none but my parent 
had any clear idea of what this old family compact 
meant, but that now we were in possession of such 
facts as enabled us to understand it. I then went on 



Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 537 


to make plain that my aunt was full of the matter, 
and eager, but that I had no inclination at any time 
to enter on a long and doubtful litigation in another 
country. 

To myself I confessed that I desired no immediate 
settlement until I saw what Arthur meant to be at. 
It was one more hold on a scamp still able to do me 
mischief. If it was clearly his father’s estate and 
not ours, he should soon or late be relieved of any 
possible doubt this deed might still make as to ques- 
tions of title. 

When Mr. Wilson turned to my aunt he found a 
more warlike witness. She delighted in the prospect 
of a legal contest. 

“ When a child,” she said, “ I used to hear of my 
father’s having consented to make over or give away 
to his brother William an embarrassed estate, and 
that the crown officers were in some way consenting 
parties to the agreement, my father engaging him- 
self to go to America when let out of jail. 

“ There is no doubt,” she went on, “that Wyncote 
was under this arrangement legally transferred by 
my father to his next brother. Our W elsh cousins 
must have this conveyance. It seems, from the deed 
you have examined, that privately a retransfer was 
made, so as, after all, to leave my father possessed of 
his ancestral estate. If ever he chose to reclaim it 
he was free to do so. The affair seems to have be- 
come more or less known to the squires in that part 
of Merionethshire. William was, we presume, un- 
willing to take an unfair advantage of his brother’s 


538 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


misfortune, and hence the arrangement thus made 
between them.” 

“You state the case admirably,” said the lawyer. 
“ And what else is there ? ” 

“ But little. Letters of affection and esteem came 
and went at long intervals. I recollect hearing bits 
of them, but cannot say if the estate matter were ever 
mentioned. After William’s death the correspon- 
dence may or may not have ceased. His brother 
Owen came into the property without interference, 
and, dying, left a young son, Owen, who is still alive. 
His son Arthur, Captain Wynne, is to be here to- 
day. There are personal matters involved, into which 
there is no need to go. The Welsh branch is no 
doubt desirous in some way to clear the matter ; but 
having held the estate for a century, they are, we may 
presume, not very eager to give it up. In justice 
to Owen Wynne, I may say that it is probable that 
because of a long minority he only began, as I think, 
a few years ago to have any doubt as to his title. I 
may add,” my aunt went on, “ that Captain Wynne 
came and went during the war, and that only of late 
has this deed turned up.” 

“ And your brother is quite unfit to help us?” said 
Wilson. 

“ Yes ; and unwilling if he were able.” 

“ I see, madam, I see ; a difficult business.” 

u And this deed ? ” said my aunt ; “ you were about 
to speak of it.” 

“It is,” he replied, “a simple act of sale for one 
shilling, a reconveyance of Wyncote from William 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 539 


fco Hugh, the date October 9, 1671. It is in order, 
and duly witnessed.” 

“WeH?” 

“ As to its present value, Mistress Wynne, there is 
a consensus of opinion between the Attorney-General 
and myself.” 

“ That is to say, you agree,” said my aunt. 

u Precisely, madam. It is our belief that the lapse 
of time has probably destroyed the title. There is 
no annexed trust, on William’s part, to hold for his 
brother’s use, and the length of undisputed, or what 
we lawyers call adverse, possession— something like 
an hundred years or more— seems to make it impos- 
sible for my friends to oust the present holder. Am 
I clear ? ” 

“ Too clear, sir,” said my aunt. a Is that all ¥ ” 

u No ; I said, 1 seems.’ There are other questions, 
such as the mention of the matter in letters. If the 
succeeding brothers in letters or otherwise from time 
to time acknowledged the rights of Hugh Wynne, 
that might serve to keep alive the claim ; if, too, it 
can be proved that at any time they paid over to 
Hugh or his son, your brother, madam, rents or dues, 
as belonging to these American claimants, this too 
would serve to give some validity to your present 
claim. It is a question of dates, letters, and of your 
possession of evidence in the direction of repeated 
admissions on the part of the Welsh holders.” 

My Aunt Gainor was at once confident. Search 
should be made. She had some remembrance in her 
childhood of this and that. In fact, my aunt never 


540 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


admitted the existence of obstacles, and commonly 
refused to see them. Mr. Wilson shook his head 
dubiously. “There seems to have been negligence 
or a quite culpable indifference, madam. The time 
to be covered by admissions is long, and the statutes 
of 32 Henry VIII. and 21 James I., 1623, do, I fear, 
settle the matter. The lapse in the continuity of 
evidence will be found after the death of Hugh. 
Twenty years will suffice, and I am forced to admit 
that your claim seems to me of small value. It was 
simply an estate given away, owing to want of the 
simplest legal advice.” 

“Wait until I look through our papers,” said my 
aunt. “We are not done with it yet, nor shall be, if 
I have my way, until the courts have had a chance 
to decide.” 

“It will be mere waste of money, my dear lady. 
Now, at least, you can do nothing. The war is not 
over, and when it is, none but an English court can 
settle the title. I confess it seems to be a case for 
amicable compromise.” 

“ There shall be none— none,” said my aunt. 

“ And we are just where we began,” said I. 

“ Not quite,” he returned. “ You may have a case, 
but it seems to me a weak one, and may lie in 
chancery a man’s lifetime. I, as a friend as well as 
a lawyer, knowing you have no need of the estate, 
hesitate to advise you to engage in a suit of eject- 
ment. I should rather counsel— ah, that may be Mr. 
Wynne.” 

It was a clamorous knock at the hall door, which 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 541 

caused Mr. Wilson to cut short his advice with the 
statement that it would need longer discussion, and 
that this must be the other party. 

It was, in fact, my cousin, who was set down in a 
chair, as I saw by a glance through the window. 
When Jack and I had seen him at his inn he had 
been a little in liquor, and wore a sort of long chintz 
bedgown wrapper, with his waistcoat buttoned awry 
— not a very nice figure. He was now Arthur Wynne 
at his best. He stood a moment in the doorway, as 
beautiful a piece of manhood as ever did the devil’s 
work. His taste in all matters of dress and outer 
conduct was beyond dispute, and for this family 
meeting he had apparently made ready with unusual 
care. Indeed this, my last remembrance of Arthur 
Wynne, is of a figure so striking that I cannot resist 
to say just how he looked. His raiment was costly 
enough to have satisfied Polonius ; if it bore any 
relation to his purse, I know not. It was not “ ex- 
pressed in fancy,” as was that of the macaroni dandy 
of those early days. He knew better. As he stood 
he carried in his left hand a dark beaver edged with 
gold lace. His wig was small, and with side rolls 
well powdered, the queue tied with a lace-bordered 
red ribbon. In front a full Mechlin lace jabot, with 
the white wig above, set his regular features and 
dark skin in a frame, as it were, his paleness and 
a look of melancholy in the eyes helping the natu- 
ral beauty and distinction of a face high bred and 
haughty. The white silk flowered waistcoat, the 
bunch of gold seals below it, the claret-tinted velvet 


542 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


coat and breeches, the black silk clocked hose with 
gold buckles at ankle and knee, and a silver-hilted 
dress-sword in a green shagreen sheath, complete my 
picture. I wish you to see him as I saw him, that in a 
measure you may comprehend why his mere personal 
charms were such as to attract and captivate women. 

He came forward with his right hand on his heart 
and bowed to my aunt, who swept him a space-filling 
curtsey, as he said quite pleasantly, “ Good-afternoon, 
Cousin Gainor ; your servant, Mr. Wilson.” To me 
he bent slightly, but gave no other greeting. It was 
all easy, tranquil, and without sign of embarrassment. 
As he spoke he moved toward the table, on which 
Mr. Wilson had laid his papers and bag. Now, as 
always, a certain deliberate feline grace was in all 
his movements. 

“ For a truth, he is a beauty,” said my Aunt Gai- 
nor after our meeting was over. “ And well-propor- 
tioned, but no bit of him Wynne. He has not our 
build.” Nor had he. 

“ Pray be seated,” said my aunt. “ I have asked 
my friend and counsel, Mr. James Wilson, to be 
present, that he may impartially set before you a 
family matter, in which your father may have inter- 
est. My nephew, Hugh Wynne, is here at my earnest 
solicitation. I regret that Mr. Chew is unable, by 
reason of engagements, to do me a like favour. Mr, 
Wilson will have the kindness to set before you the 
nature of the case.” 

Mistress Wynne, sitting straight and tall in a high 
cap, spoke with dignified calmness. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 543 


“At your service, madam,” said the lawyer, look- 
ing Arthur over with the quick glance of a ready 
observer. Before he could go on to do as he was 
bidden I found my chance to say, “ You will be so 
good, Mr. Wilson, as to state Mr. Owen Wynne’s case, 
as well as our own, with entire frankness ; we have 
no desire to wrong any, and least of all one of our 
blood.” 

“I think I understand you fully,” said Wilson. 
u A deed has been put in the hands of Mr. Attorney- 
General Chew and myself, and as to its value and 
present validity an opinion has been asked by Mis- 
tress Wynne and her nephew.” 

“Pardon me,” said Arthur; “is not my Cousin 
J ohn the proper person to consider this question ? ” 
“Assuredly,” returned Mr. Wilson, “if his state 
of mind permitted either his presence or an opinion 
No interests will be affected by his absence, nor can 
we do more than acquaint those who are now here 
with what, as lawyers, we think.” 

“ I see,” said Arthur. “ Pray go on.” 

“ This deed seems to convey to my client’s grand- 
father— that is to say, Mistress Wynne’s father— 
certain lands situate in Merionethshire, Wales. I 
understand that you, sir, represent the present 
holder.” 

“ I am,” said Arthur, “ the son of the gentleman 
now in possession of Wyncote, and have full permis- 
sion to act for him. If, indeed, you desire further 
to learn on what authority—” 

u Not at all, not at all,” interposed Wilson. “ Your 


544 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


presence suffices ; no more is needed. This meeting 
commits no one.” 

“I was about to ask the date of this document,” 
said Arthur. 

“ Certainly ; here it is.” And so saying the lawyer 
spread the deed out on the table. “ It is a convey- 
ance from William Wynne to Hugh of that name ; 
the date, 1671, October 9 5 the witnesses are Henry 
Owen and Thomas ap Roberts. It is voluminous. 
Do you desire to hear it ? ” 

“ No j oh no ! What next ? ” 

“We believe,” continued the lawyer, “that this 
deed has ceased to have effect, owing to lapse of time 
and the appearance— pray note my words— the ap - 
pearance of undisputed ownership by the younger 
branch. Neither is there any trust to hold the 
estate for Hugh ; it is a mere conveyance.” 

“There can be, of course, no doubt,” returned 
Arthur— “ I mean as to a century of unquestioned 
possession.” 

“ I am not secure as to the point you make,” said 
Mr. Wilson, courteously. “I cannot now decide. 
I am asked to state the matter impartially. My 
clients wish justice done to all, and will take no 
unfair advantage. It may be you have no case. 
There may have passed frequent letters on both 
sides, admitting the claim or reasserting it, and thus 
keeping it alive. Rents may have been paid. Facts 
like these may open questions as to the length of 
undisputed holding. Only your own courts can de- 
cide it, and that with all the evidence before them.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 545 

u I am obliged by your frankness,” said my cousin. 
u I had hoped to see the matter fully settled.” 

“ That will never be,” said my aunt, u until I have 
carried it through every court in England.” 

“ As you please,” replied Arthur. 

“ Mr. Wynne,” said I, “ while my father lives we 
shall do nothing ; nor even afterward, perhaps. 1 
do not want the money, nor the old home. What is 
done may depend much on your own actions, sir.” 
I had no desire to lose this hold on him. As I spoke 
I saw him look up astonished, as was also, I thought, 
the lawyer, who knew nothing of our quarrels. 

“ If,” said I, “ you had come to us frankly at first, 
and stated why you came, we should have said what 
I now say. No, I should have said far more. I 
believe this ends the matter for the present.” My 
aunt lifted her hand, but I added, “ I pray you let it 
rest here, aunt,” and for a wonder she held her peace. 

Arthur, too, seemed about to speak, but his worse 
or better angel, I know not which, prevailed, and 
quietly saluting us all, he rose and took his leave. 

“We shall see when this war is over,” said my 
aunt, taking the deed. “ Many thanks, Mr. Wilson ; 
I should like to have your opinion in writing.” 

“I shall send it in a week or two. Mr. Arthur 
Wynne seems to have come over, as I judge from 
what he said, with authority to act for his father. 
Why he did not at once relate his errand I cannot 
see. Had you had no deed it would have closed the 
matter. If he found you had one he would have 
been only in the position he is now in to-day.” 

35 


546 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“I fancy lie may have been fearful and over- 
cautious, not comprehending the nature of those he 
had to deal with/’ said I. “You must have known 
him as I do, Mr. Wilson, to understand his actions. 
I was sorry you did not let him tell us what powers 
he really had. I was curious.” 

“ Yes, yes, I interrupted him. It was a mistake.” 
And so saying he rose. 

“It shall not rest here,” said my aunt. “Some- 
thing shall be done.” And on this I too went away, 
declining further talk. 

When Arthur came over to learn what he could 
as to their title to Wyncote, he failed to see that we 
were people whom no prospect of gain could lead 
into the taking of an advantage. He thus lost the 
chance a little honest directness would have given 
him. When later my father threw in his way the 
opportunity of absolute security as to the title, the 
temptation to get secretly from him a legal transfer, 
or— God knows— perhaps the power to destroy the 
deed, was too much for a morally weak and quite 
reckless nature. I was the sole obstacle, or I seemed 
to be. We loved the same woman; she had begun 
to doubt her English lover. If I had died he had 
become assured, not only of the possession of Wyn- 
cote, but of being ultimately my father’s heir. 

Of this Jack writes: “Here was a whole brigade 
of temptations, and he could not stand it. He would 
have broken that tender heart I loved. God help me ! 
I think I should have killed him before he had the 
cruel chance ” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 547 


If to the estate and other worldly baits was 
added the remembrance of the blow a mere boy 
gave, I do not know. It is certain that at last he 
hated me, and as sure that I had as little love fo* 
him. 


XXX 


ARLY in March of 1782 Jack and I con 
eluded that the war was over, or was to be 
but a waiting game, as indeed it proved. 
After some thought over the matter we 
both resigned, and as it was desired to 
lessen the list of officers, we were promptly released 
from service. 

On March 22 his Excellency rode away from town 
under escort of Captain Morris’s troop of light horse. 
I went along as far as Burlington, being honoured 
when I left by the personal thanks of the general, 
and the kind wish that I might discover it to be 
convenient to visit him at Mount Vernon. 

April was come, and we gladly turned again to 
the duties which awaited us both. His Excellency 
had gone to watch Sir Guy Carleton penned up in 
New York. Congress wrangled, our gay world ate 
and danced, and the tardy war fell to such slackness 
that it was plain to all a peace must soon come, 
although we were yet to see another winter pass 
before the obstinate Dutchman on the English 
throne gave up a lost game. 

In July my father died of a sudden afflux of blood 

548 



Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 549 


to the head ; and although he was blooded by Dr. 
Rush several times, never was so far bettered as to 
speak to me. Only once, as I am told is not rare, 
he so revived when in the very article of death as 
to look about and say, thinking my hand in his was 
my mother’s, that she must not grieve for him. 

Alas ! he had been as one dead to me for many a 
year. I wore no black for him, because I was and 
am of the opinion of Friends that this custom is a 
foolish one. My aunt was ill pleased at my decision, 
and put herself and all her house in mourning. 
None the less, for my part, did I regret, not so much 
the natural, easy death, as the sad fact it seemed to 
fetch back so plainly, that from my youth up here 
were two people, neither of them unkindly or ill 
natured, who were all through life as completely 
apart as if no tie of a common blood had pledged 
them to affection. 

I saw— I can see now— the gray and drab of the 
great concourse of Friends who stood about that 
open grave on Arch street. I can see, too, under 
the shadow of his broad gray beaver, the simple, 
sincere face of James Pemberton, my father’s 
lifelong friend. He spoke, as was the custom of 
Friends, at the grave, there being no other cere- 
mony, an omission of which I confess I do not 
approve. Much moved, he said : 

II Our friend, J ohn Wynne, departed this life on 
the 23d of July of this year [being 1782]. For many 
years he hath carried the cross of afflicting sickness, 
and hath unceasingly borne testimony to the doc* 


55° Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


trine and conduct upheld of Friends. He was a 
man of great abilities, and, like our lamented William 
Penn, of an excellent gravity of disposition, without 
dissimulation, extensive in charity, having neither 
malice nor ungratefulness. He was apt without 
forwardness, yet weighty, and not given to unseemly 
levity. The wise shall cherish the thought of him, 
and he shall be remembered with the just.” And 
this was all. One by one they took my hand, and 
with my Aunt Gainor I walked away. I closed the 
old home a day or two later, and went with my 
aunt to her farm. 

I had not seen Darthea for many a day. u Let 
her alone,” said my aunt. I think Jack was often 
with her; but he knew to hold his tongue, and I 
asked no questions. At last, a week after the fu- 
neral, I recognised her hand in the address of a 
note to me. I read it with a throbbing heart. 

“ Sir : I have heard of your great loss with sorrow, 
for even though your father has been this long while 
as one lost to you, I do think that the absence of a 
face we love is so much taken from the happiness of 
life. You know that your aunt hurt me as few could, 
but now I am not sorry for what then befell. The 
thought of death brings others in its train, and I 
have reflected much of late. I shall go to see Mis- 
tress Wynne to-day, and will you come and see me 
when it shall appear to you convenient ? I am for 
a little at Stenton, with Madam Logan.” 

Would I, indeed? My dear old Lucy, a little stiff 
in the knees, earned me well, and seemed to share 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 551 


my good humour as I rode down the long road from 
Chestnut Hill. 

The great trees about the home James Logan 
built were in full leaf, and under their shade a black 
groom held two horses as I rode up. Darthea came 
out, and was in the saddle before she saw me. 

The rich bloom of health was again on her cheek, 
and deepened a little as I went toward her. 

I said I was glad to see her, and was she going to 
my Aunt Gainor’s? If so, and if it were agreeable 
to her, the groom might stay. I would ride back 
with her. Then Mrs. Logan, at the door, said this 
would suit very well, as she needed the man to go to 
town. After this we rode away under the trees and 
up the Germantown road, Miss Peniston pushing 
her horse, and we not able on this account to talk. 
At last, when I declared Lucy too old to keep up the 
pace, the good beast fell to walking. 

Soon we went by the graveyard where the brave 
Englishman, General Agnew, lay ; and here Darthea 
was of a mind to be told again of that day of glory 
and defeat. At the market-house, where School-house 
Lane comes out into the main street of German- 
town, she must hear of the wild strife in the fog and 
smoke, and at last of how I was hurt ; and so we 
rode on. She had gotten again her gay spirits, and 
was full of mirth, anon serious, or for a moment 
sad. Opposite Cliveden I had to talk of the fight, 
and say where were Jack and Sullivan and Wayne, 
although Jack more concerned her. As we rode up 
the slope of Mount Airy I broke a long silence. 


552 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ Darthea,” said I, “ is it yes, or always no ? ” 

‘•'Will you never be contented?” she returned. 
“ Is n’t it mean to say these things now ? I can’t get 
away. I have half a mind to marry Jack, to be rid 
of you both.” 

“ Is it yes or no, Darthea f ” 

“Yes,” she said, looking me in the face. I am a 
strong man,— I was so then,— but a great rush of 
blood seemed to go to my head, and then I went 
pale, as she told me later, and I clutched at Lucy’s 
mane. I felt as if I might fall, so much was I moved 
by this great news of joy. 

u Are you ill ? ” she cried. 

“ No, no,” I said j “ it is love ! -Thy dear love I 
cannot bear. Thank God, Darthea ! ” 

“And do you love me so much, Hugh? I— I did 
not know.” She was like a sweet, timid child. 

I could only say, “Yes, yes ! ” 

“Oh, Hugh!” she cried. “How can you forgive 
me ? But I am not like other women. My word— 
you will know— and then you will forgive me.” 
Her eyes were full of tears, her face all aglow. 

“There is— there never will be anything to forgive.” 

“But I was so foolish— and— I was so foolish.” 

“ Let us forget, Darthea. I have thy love. God 
knows it is enough.” 

“ Thank you, Hugh. Don’t speak to me for a lit- 
tle, please.” And under the warm August afternoon 
sky we rode on at a foot-pace, and said no word 
more until we came to my aunt’s door. Then Dar- 
thea slyly put on her riding-mask, and we went in. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 553 

My aunt had her in her great arms in a moment. 
The mask fell, and then my aunt held her off a little, 
looked from her to me, and said, “ Has he made you 
cry, sweetheart ? He always was a fool. I am very 
glad. You have made an old woman’s heart sing 
with joy. It is not your fault. Hugh’s silly face 
was enough. Lord ! girl, how pretty you are ! Do 
you suppose I never was in love? I never was, hut 
I know the signs.” Darthea, released, was pleased 
enough to he let go up to my aunt’s room. By and 
hy she came down, saucy and smiling, and later 
came Jack, when my aunt, being too happy to hold 
her dear old tongue, told him, while poor Darthea 
looked at him with a tender gravity I did not under- 
stand. He went away very soon, saying he had busi- 
ness in town, and this is what he writ that night : 

“ And so she will have my Hugh, and he the best 
lady alive, I pray the good God to keep them from 
all the sorrows of this world. If he love her as I 
love her, she can ask no greater love ; and he will— 
he cannot help it. Now I will write no more. God 
bless thee, Darthea ! ” It was thus a gallant gentle- 
man loved in those stormy days. 

And here, with this dear name, his records close, 
and there is the date of August 1, 1782, and a line 
drawn underneath. 

The new relation soon to be established between 
us of necessity brought Madam Peniston and my 
aunt into frequent council. There were matters of 
dress to be considerately dealt with, and I was told 
it must be six months before orders could be filled 


554 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

from France, England being just now out of the 
question. Where the mysteries of women’s gar- 
ments are concerned a man hath no better resort 
than to submit humbly, as to a doctor or a lawyer. 
Here of a certainty knowledge is power, and as to 
this matter, a man had best learn to conceal amaze- 
ment under a show of meekness. 

When I ventured to remonstrate Darthea looked 
serious, and would I ever have fallen in love with 
her unless she had laid snares of gown and ribbon, 
and how was my love to be kept if for the future 
there were not provided a pretty variety of such 
vanities ? Even my Aunt Gainor refused to discuss 
the question. I must wait ; and as this was the sin- 
gle occasion known to me when she had declined a 
hand at the game of talk, I began to perceive that 
ignorance is weakness, and so at last, calmty con- 
fessing defeat, I waited until those consulting chose 
to advise me, the patient, of their conclusions. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Peniston had ceased to grieve 
over the lost lover and the great estate— it never 
was really great. 

My aunt could not let go of the notion that we 
must have a fight for Wyncote. This tendency to 
become possessed by an idea, I came to see later, 
was a family trait, of value if wisely kept in due 
place, but capable, also, of giving rise to mischief. 
My aunt, in some of her talks with Darthea’s rela- 
tive, heard of that good dame’s past regrets at the 
loss of a title and estate and a British lover, and of 
how flattered we ought to be. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 555 


I presume poor Madam Peniston was well and 
sharply answered; but it was not in my Aunt 
Gainor not to boast a little of how we were the 
elder branch, and of what might chance in the fairy 
future. When Mrs. Peniston saw the deed, and was 
told of the search my aunt was making for letters 
to support our claims, she was too excited not to let 
out enough to disturb Darthea, and this although 
my aunt told Mrs. Peniston of my dislike of the 
whole matter, and how it was never to be mentioned 
or known to any until more evidence came to light. 
Thus cautioned, she was just mysterious enough to 
excite my quick-witted maid, who was as curious as 
any of her sex. 

When of course she questioned me, and some 
notion of the mischief on hand came thus to my 
knowledge, I saw at once how it might annoy Dar- 
thea. I said that it merely concerned a question 
in dispute between Arthur Wynne’s family and my 
own, and ought not, I thought, to be discussed just 
now. The mere name of her former lover was 
enough to silence her, and so I begged her to put 
it aside. She was willing enough. I had happier 
things on my own mind, and no present desire to 
stir in the matter. In fact, I wished most earnestly 
to keep it awhile from Darthea. How much she 
knew I could not tell, but I was well aware that she 
was, above all things, sensitive as to any reference to 
Arthur Wynne. That she had once loved him with 
the honest love of a strong nature I knew, and 
somewhat hated to remember; but this love was 


556 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


dead, and if tlie sorry ghost of it haunted her at 
times, I could not wonder. My aunt had once or 
twice mentioned him casually, and each time Dar- 
thea had flushed, and once had asked her never to 
speak of him again. I meant soon— or more likely 
later— to discuss the matter quietly with Darthea ; 
for then, as always, I held to the notion that the 
wife should have her share in every grave decision 
affecting the honour and interests of her husband. 

After this I spoke most anxiously of the matter 
to my aunt, and entreated her to quiet Madam Pen- 
iston, and to let the thing rest in my hands. This 
she declared most reasonable, but I knew her too 
well not to feel uneasy, and indeed the result justi- 
fied my fears. 

My aunt, as I have said, had gone wild a bit over 
that deed, and when Darthea was not with her was 
continually discussing it, and reading over and over 
Mr. Wilson’s opinion. I got very tired of it all. 

One night, late in October, I rode out from town, 
and, after a change of dress, went into the front 
room with the dear thought in my mind of her 
whom I should see. 

A welcome fire of blazing hickory logs alone lighted 
up the large room, for my aunt liked thus to sit at 
or after twilight, and as yet no candles had been set 
out. As I stood at the door, the leaping flames, 
flaring up, sent flitting athwart the floor queer 
shadows of tall-backed chairs and spindle-legged 
tables. The great form of my Aunt Gainor filled 
the old Penn chair I had brought from home, liking 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 557 


myself to use it. Just now, as usual, she was sitting 
erect, for never did I or any one else see her use for 
support the back of a chair. At her feet lay Dar- 
thea, with her head in the old lady’s lap— a pretty 
picture, I thought. 

Darthea leaped up to run to me. My aunt said 
nothing, not so much as “ Good-evening,” but went 
out, and in a minute or two came back, exclaim- 
ing, in an excited way, that she had waited all day, 
and now at last she had great news, and we must 
hear it. 

I was bewildered, until I saw she had in one hand 
the deed and in the other a bundle of letters. Then 
I knew what a distressful business was to be faced, 
and that it was vain to cry “ Stop ! ” 

“ What is it ? ” said Darthea. 

“ It can wait,” said I, “I insist, Aunt Gainor.” 

“Nonsense! The girl must know soon or late, 
and why not now ? ” 

“ I must hear, Hugh,” said Darthea. 

“Very well,” I returned, as angry with the old 
lady as ever I had been in all my life. 

“"it is a thing to settle,” cried Aunt Gainor, in her 
strong voice. “We must agree— agree on it— all of 
us.” 

“ Go on,” said I. And Darthea insisting, I said 
nothing more, and was only concerned to be done 
with it once for all. 

“ The war will soon end,” said my aunt, “ and 
something must be done. These letters I have come 
upon put a new face on the matter. I have not yet 


558 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


read all of them. But among them are letters to 
your grandfather of great importance.” 

I was vexed as I have rarely been. “I never 
doubted, Aunt Gainor, that in my grandfather’s life 
some acknowledgments may have passed ; but it is 
the long lapse of time covered by my father’s life 
which will fail as to evidence.” 

“ It shall not ! ” she cried. “ You shall be mistress 
of Wyncote, Darthea. These letters—” 

“I? Wyncote ? ” said Darthea. 

“ Let us discuss them alone, aunt,” I urged, hoping 
to get the matter put aside for a time. 

“No; I will wait no longer. I am deeply con- 
cerned, and I wish Darthea to hear.” 

“ Why not refer it to Mr. Wilson ? Unless these 
letters cover far more of a century than seems likely, 
they cannot alter the case.” 

“ That is to be determined,” said the old lady. “ I 
shall go to England and settle it there. You shall 
be Wynne of Wyncote yet, sir.” 

“ What ! what ! ” cried Darthea. “ What does all 
this mean ? Tell me, Hugh. Why is it kept from 
me?” It was plain that soon or late she must 
know. 

“ My aunt thinks Wyncote belongs to us. There 
is an old deed, and my aunt will have it we must go 
to law over it. It is a doubtful matter, Darthea— 
as to the right, I mean. I have no wish to stir it up, 
nor to leave my own land if we were to win it.” 

I saw Darthea flush, and in a moment she was at 
my aunt’s side. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 55 9 


“ Stop ! ” said I. “ Remember, dear, I have not hid 
it from yon. I desired only that some day you and 
I should consider it alone and tranquilly. But now 
there is no help for it, and you must hear. The 
deed — 99 

“ Is this it ? ” she broke in, taking the yellow parch- 
ment off the table where my aunt had laid it. 

“Yes, yes,” said my aunt j “and you must bring 
Hugh to his senses about it, my dear. It is a great 
estate, and rich, and the old house— we have its pic- 
ture, Darthea. Madam Wynne of Wyncote, I shall 
come and visit you.” The old lady was flushed, and 
foolishly eager over this vain ambition. 

Darthea stood in the brilliant firelight, her eyes set 
on the deed. “ I cannot understand it,” she said. 

“ I will send for candles,” cried Mistress Wynne, 
“ and you shall hear it, and the letters too ; ” and with 
this she rang a hand-bell, and bade Cassar fetch lights. 

I looked on, distressed and curious. 

“ And this,” said Darthea, “ is the deed, and it may 
give you, Hugh— give us the lands?” 

“But I do not want it,” cried my aunt, greatly 
excited. “ It is to be Hugh’s. Yours, my dear child.” 

“If,” said Darthea, speaking slowly, “the elder 
brother dies, as he surely will before long, it will be 
—it will be Arthur Wynne who, on his father’s death, 
will inherit this estate ? ” 

“ That is it,” said my aunt. “ But he shall never 
have it. It is ours. It is Hugh’s.” 

My dear maid turned to me. “ And it would be 
i&urs, ” said Darthea, “if—” 


560 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ Yes,” cried Miss Wynne. “ There are no ‘ifs.’” 

“Do you want it, Hugh — these Welsh lands?” 
asked Darthea. 

I thought she looked anxiously at the deed in her 
hand as she stood. “Not I, Darthea, and least of 
all now. Not I.” 

“No,” she went on; “you have taken the man’s 
love from him— I think he did love me, Hugh, in his 
way— you could not take his estate 3 now could you, 
Hugh ? ” 

“No ! ” said I ; “no ! ” 

“ Darthea, are you mad ? ” said Aunt Wynne. 

“ I will not have it ! ” cried Darthea. “ I say I will 
not have it, and it concerns me most, madam.” I 
had never before seen her angry. “ Do you love me, 
Hugh Wynne ? ” she cried. “ Do you love me, sir ? ” 

“ Darthea ! ” 

“ Will you always love me ? ” 

“ Dear child ! ” I exclaimed. “ What is it ? * 

“Give me that deed,” said my aunt. “Are you 
crazy fools, both of you ? ” 

“Fools, Mistress Wynne?” said Darthea, turning 
from me, the deed still in her hand. “You are cruel 
and unkind. Could I marry Hugh Wynne if he did 
this thing ? Are there no decencies in life, madam, 
that are above being sold for money and name ? I 
should never marry him if he did this thing —never 3 
and I mean to marry him, madam.” And with this 
she unrolled the deed, crumpled it up, and threw it 
on the red blaze of the fire. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 561 


There was a flash of flame and a roar in the chim- 
ney. It was gone in a moment, and our Welsh lands 
were so much smoke and cinders. 

My aunt made a wild rush to rescue them, but 
struck her head against the chimney-slielf, and fell 
back into a chair, crying, “ You idiot ! you fool ! You 
shall never marry him ! ” 

I picked up the slim little lady in my arms, and 
kissed her over and over, whilst, as she struggled 
away, I whispered : 

“ Thank God ! Dear, brave heart ! It was well 
done, and I thank you.” 

My aunt’s rage knew no bounds, and I may not 
repeat what she said to my Darthea, who stood open- 
eyed, defiant, and flushed. 

I begged the furious old lady to stop. A whirl- 
wind were as easily checked. At last, when she could 
say no more, my dear maid said quietly : 

“ What I have done, Hugh should have done long 
since. We are to live together, I trust, madam, for 
many years, and I love you well ; but you have said 
things to me not easy to forget. I beg to insist that 
you apologise. For lighter things men kill one am 
other. I await, madam, your excuses.” 

It was a fine sight to see how this fiery little bit of 
a woman faced my tall, strong aunt, who ‘towered 
above her, her large face red with wrath. 

u Never!” she cried. “I have been — it is I who 
am insulted and put to shame, in my own house, by 
a chit of a miss.” 

36 


562 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


“ Then good-by/’ said Darthea, and was by me and 
out of the house before I could see what to do or 
know what to say. 

“ She is gone ! ” I cried. “ Oh, Aunt Gainor, you 
have broken my heart ! ” 

“What did I say, Hugh?” said my aunt. I do 
truly think she did not know what she had said j and 
now she was off: and I after her, knocking over Caesar 
and our belated candles, and out of doors after Dar- 
thea. I saw her join her a few yards away, and did 
wisely to hold back. I knew well the child-heart my 
aunt carried within that spacious bosom. 

What the pair of them said I do not know. In a 
few minutes they were back again, both in tears, the 
whole wretched business at an end. I thought it 
better to go away and leave them, but my aunt cried 
out: 

“ W ait, sir ! I am an old ass l If either of you 
ever mention this thing again, I— I will wring your 
necks. I make free to say that some day you will 
both regret it ; but it is your affair and not mine. O 
Lord ! if Cat Ferguson ever comes to know it—” 

“ She never will,” said Darthea ; “ and we will love 
you and love you, dear, dear mother, and I am sorry 
I hurt you ; but I had to— I had to. If I was wise, 
I know not ; but I had to end it— I had to.” 

Never before had I heard the sweet woman call my 
aunt mother. She often did so in after-years. It 
melted the old spinster, and she fell to kissing her, 
saying: 

“Yes, I am your mother, child, and always will 


Hugh Wynne : Free Quaker 563 


be.” But ever after Mistress Wynne was a trifle 
afraid of my little lady, and there were no more such 
scenes. 

When my aunt was gone away to bed though not 
to sleep, I fear, my dear maid came and sat at my 
feet on a cushion, and for a time was silent. At 
last, looking up, she said, “Hugh, was I wrong to 
burn it? ” 

Then I was silent a little while, but from the first I 
was resolved to be ever outright and plain with my 
lady, who was impulsive, and would need help and 
counsel and government, that her character might 
grow, as it did in after-years. I said : “Yes, Darthea. 
It is better for me to tell you the simple truth. 
It would have made no difference had the deed been 
left undestroyed; it would only have given you 
the chance to know me better, and to learn that no 
consideration would have made me take these lands, 
even had our title been clear. Now you have de- 
stroyed my power of choice. I am not angry, not 
even vexed ; but another time trust me, dear.” 

“I see ! I see ! ” she exclaimed. “What have I 
done?” And she began to sob. “I was — was 
wicked not to trust you, and foolish ; and now I see 
Aunt G-ainor had reason to be angry. But you are 
good and brave to tell me. I could not have said 
what you said; I should have declared you were 
right. And now I know it was weakness, not 
strength, that made me do it. I shall pray God to 
forgive me. Kiss me, Hugh; I love you twice as 
much as ever I did before.” v 


564 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

When I had done her sweet bidding, I said, “Dar- 
thea, let us forget all this. Wrong or right, I at least 
am pleased to have the thing at rest forever; and, 
wrong or right, I thank you. I was honest, Darthea, 
when I said so ; and now good-night.” At this she 
looked me in the eyes and went slowly out of the 
room, and, I fear, had no better slumbers than my 
Aunt Gainor. 


XXXI 


ARLY in February of 1783 we were mar- 
ried by the Rev. William White, long 
after to be our good bishop. Christ 
Church was full of my old friends, my 
Aunt Gainor in the front pew in a mag- 
nificent costume, and Mrs. Peniston with Jack, very 
grave of face, beside her. As no De Lanceys were 
to be had in our rebel town, Mr. James Wilson gave 
away the precious gift of Darthea Peniston. We 
went in m3" aunt’s chariot to Merion ; and so ends the 
long tale of my adventures, which here, in the same 
old country home, I have found it pleasant to set 
down for those who will, I trust, live in it when I 
am dead. 

In April, 1783, peace was proclaimed. In Novem- 
ber of that year I heard from Colonel Hamilton that 
our beloved general would, on December 4, take leave 
of his officers, and that he was kind enough to desire 
that all of his old staff who wished should be present. 
I was most pleased to go. 

In New York, at Fraunce’s Tavern, near White- 
hall Ferry, I found the room full of the men who 
had humbled the pride of England and brought our 

S 6 5 



566 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


great war to a close. His Excellency entered at 
noon, and seeing about him these many companions 
in arms, was for a little so agitated that he could 
not speak. Then with a solemn and kindly expres- 
sion of face, such as I had once before seen him wear, 
he filled a glass with wine, and, seeming to steady 
himself, said: 

“ With a heart full of love and gratitude, I take 
my leave of you, most devoutly wishing that your 
latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your 
former ones have been glorious and honourable.” 

So saying, he drank his wine, and one after an- 
other went by him shaking his hand. No word was 
said, and these worn veterans of the winter camps 
and the summer battle-fields moved out, and saw 
their former general pass down, between lines of in- 
fantry, to the shore. There he got into a barge. As 
he was rowed away he stood up and lifted his hat. 
All of us uncovered, and remained thus till he passed 
from sight, to be seen no more by many of those who 
gazed sadly after his retreating form. 

There is an old book my grandchildren love to 
hear me read to them. It is the “ Morte d’ Arthur,” 
done into English by Sir Thomas Malory. Often 
when I read therein of how Arthur the king bade 
farewell to the world and to the last of the great 
company of his Knights of the Round Table, this 
scene at Whitehall slip comes back to me, and I seem 
to see once more those gallant soldiers, and far away 
the tall figure of surely the knightliest gentleman 
our days have known. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 567 


My years go on in peace. We have enough— far 
more than enough— for all the wants and even for 
the luxuries of life. It is late in the night, and 
Christmas-time, in the great stone house at Merion. 
The noise of little ones— and they are many— has 
ceased. I hear steps and laughter in the hall. The 
elder ones troop in to say good-night. There are 
Darthea and Glamor, mothers of the noisy brigade 
now in bed, and here is Hugh, the youngest, and 
Jack, with the big build of his race. And soon all 
are gone, and the house quiet. 

I looked up where, under my dear Jack Warder’s 
face, which Stuart did for me, hangs Knyphausen’s 
long blade, and across it Jack’s sword. Below, my 
eye lights on the Hessian pistols, and the sword-knot 
the gallant marquis gave me. 

I watch the crumbling fire and seem to see once 
more the fierce struggle in the market-place, the 
wild fight on the redoubt, and my cousin’s dark face. 
The years have gone by, and for me and mine there 
is peace and love, and naught a man in years may 
not think upon with joy. 

Suddenly two hands from behind are over my 
eyes ; ah, well I know their tender touch ! Says a 
dear voice I hope to hear till life is over and after 
that, I trust— “What are you thinking of, Hugh 
Wynne?” 

“ Of how sweet you have made my life to me, my 
darling.” 

u Thank God ! * 






























4 * 




































































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' 




/ '• • 


• • 














* " - 








• ■.►vJ - . '• 






















NOTES 


Page xxx iv Proudie, Bishop of Barchester, a character in 
Anthony Trollope’s Barchester Towers. 
Tulkinghorn, a lawyer in Dickens’s Bleak House. 
xxxv Samuel Wetherill. 1736-1816. The meeting of 
Friends or Society of Free Quakers was first held 
in his home in Philadelphia. 

CHAPTER I 

Page 3 Christ Church. One of the historic shrines of 
Philadelphia on Second Street, north of Market. 
Erected in 1727. Presidents Washington and 
Adams had pews there. 

Benjamin Franklin, 1706-1790, printer, writer, 
patriot, diplomat, physicist, inventor; “The Many- 
sided Franklin. ,y 

Francis Hopkinson, 1737-1791, patriot and writer, 
signer of the Declaration of Independence, author 
of “The Battle of the Kegs.” 

Peyton Randolph, 1721-1775, at one time King’s 
attorney for Virginia ; in 1774 chosen first Presi- 
dent of the Continental Congress. 

Benjamin Rush, 1745-1813, noted physician, 
signer of the Declaration of Independence ; Phy- 
sician General for the Continental Army, Treasurer 
of the U. S. Mint from 1799 until 1813. 

4 The Georges: George I, II, III, IV, on the Eng- 
lish throne from 1714 until 1830. 

Madeira, a wine of refined high flavor made in the 
Portuguese island of Madeira off the coast of 
Morocco. 

7 General Benedict Arnold, 1741-1801, the Ameri- 
can general who subsequently became a British 
general. 

William Penn, 1644-1718, English Quaker and 
Founder of Pennsylvania ; son of Sir William 
Penn, the British Admiral. Penn founded Phila- 
delphia in 1683. 

8 Jacobean, here applied to the architecture follow- 
ing the style of that of the reign of King James I; 
in general that of the period of the Stuarts. 

James Pemberton, 1723-1809, said to have been 

569 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


the beau ideal of the genuine old-school Quaker, 
one of the founders of the Pennsylvania Abolition 
Society. 

William Logan, 1718-1776, son of James Logan, 
born at Stenton ; a pronounced protector of the 
Indian race ; attorney for the Penn family. 

John Penn, 1729-1795, born in London, came to 
Pennsylvania in 1753, appointed Lieutenant-Gover- 
nor in 1763 and Governor in 1773, which office he 
held until 1776. 

9 Charles II. 1630-1685, on the throne from 1660 
until 1685 after having been exiled in 1651. 

Eagles Displayed in Fesse, that is, in a horizontal 
band on a shield having a breadth of one third the 
area of the field. 

1 1 Tithes, assessments of one tenth ; in England 
the tenth part of the yearly proceeds arising from 
lands and personal industry of the inhabitants for 
the support of the Church. 

14 James I, 1566-1625. (James I of England, 1603- 
1625.) (James VI of Scotland, 1567-1625). 
Merion, a township in Pennsylvania, named after 
Merionethshire in Wales. In 1696 it bore the name 
of Merioneth. 

Lord Baltimore, 1605-1675, Cecil Calvert, first 
proprietor of Maryland. 

Laetitia Penn was deeded the first brick house in 
Philadelphia. It originally stood on High (Market) 
Street above Front, but later was moved to Fair- 
mount Park where it now stands. 

16 George Fox, 1624-1691, founder of the Society 
of Friends. 

18 Merion Meeting House, on old Lancaster Road, 
dating back to 1695. The Friends, who wor- 
shiped there, were Welsh. When Penn visited this 
meeting in 1701 the members could not under- 
stand him as he spoke in the English tongue. 

19 The Midi, Haute Garonne, a department of 
France, embracing portions of ancient Gascony and 
Languedoc. 


CHAPTER II 

Page 20 Dock Creek, called by the Indians Coocanocan, 
at one time one of the most interesting streams in 
the limits of Philadelphia, but arched over in 1784. 
Simple, any medicinal plant, from the former be- 
lief that each single herb provided a specific for 
some disease. 

21 Dr. Samuel Johnson, 1709-1784, author of the 
English Dictionary. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 571 


23 Settle, a long wood bench with a high back. 

24 Delft, a colored glazed earthenware made first at 
Delft in Holland about 1310. 

Chelsea, a well-known 18th century porcelain ware 
made at Chelsea in London. 

26 David J. Dove, who came to the Academy in 1750 
as a tutor ; well known for his eccentricities. 
Slate Roof House, built in 1698, and at that time 
the largest house in Philadelphia. William Penn 
was one of its first occupants. It stood at Second 
Street and Norris’s Alley, as late as 1867. 
Mohair, literally, the wool of the Angora goat : 
here used as army slang. 

27 Secundum artem, here, in the most expert 
fashion. 

Academy founded by Dr. Franklin. On No- 
vember 14, 1740, a lot on the west side of Fourth 
Street below Arch was conveyed to George Whit- 
field for ‘*a school where poor children could be 
instructed in useful literature and the Christian 
religion.” This was the beginning of the University 
of Pennsylvania. 

George Whitfield, 1714-1770, an English preacher, 
founder of the Calvanistic Methodists, well known 
in America as an Evangelist. 

30 A King’s Pound, twenty shillings. 

31 Treacle, here meaning molasses. 

33 Guinea, a former English gold coin, so called 
because first coined in 1663 from Guinea gold, and 
issued until 1817. From 1717 on, its value was 
twenty-one shillings. 

Shilling, the silver coin worth twelve pence, or 
one twentieth of a pound sterling. 


CHAPTER III 

Page 38 High Street, now Market. 

39 Spinet, a small keyboard instrument in use from 
the 16th century to the 18th, having one string to 
the note, sounded by plucking with leather plectra 
or quills attached to jacks ; predecessor to the 
harpsichord. 

Charles Wilson Peale, 1741-1827, American 
portrait painter, known principally for his por- 
traits of Washington. 

40 Sir Joshua Reynolds, 1732-1792, English por- 
trait painter, first President of the Royal Academy 
of Arts. 

Ombre, a very popular game played by three per- 
sons with forty cards, superseded in 1726 by 
quadrille. 


572 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Quadrille, a game of cards played by four per- 
sons with a pack from which the 8’s, 9’s and 10’s 
have been discarded, leaving forty cards. 

Brevet Title, a title arbitrarily conferred. 

41 Jonathan Swift, 1667-1745, Irish satirist and 
author. 

Mrs. Ferguson (Elizabeth Graeme, of Graeme 
Park, Horsham, Pa.), 1739-1801, a woman of 
brilliant talents and remarkable personality who 
wrote under the pen name of Laura. 

42 Vizard, archaic for vizor : mask. 

Chin-Curtain, a band or cloth passing under 
the chin, formerly worn by women. 

Loo-Mask, a velvet mask partly covering the face, 
worn by women in the 17th century to protect 
the complexion. 

43 Camlet, a fine closely woven waterproof fabric of 
camel’s hair, or some imitation or substitute. 
Saveguard, old form of the word safeguard. 
Hollands, a beverage flavored with juniper alone, 
especially that made in Holland. 

Hinlopen, (Henlopen), the Southernmost of the 
two capes at the entrance of Delaware Bay. 

47 Melley, same as melee, a general hand-to-hand 
fight. 

Yorktown, where Cornwallis surrendered to Wash- 
ington, October 19, 1781. 


CHAPTER IV 

Page 51 Mrs. Aphra Beiin, 1640-1689, an English 
woman dramatist and novelist. 

“The Life and Adventures of Peter Wilkins,” 
by Robert Pultlock, of Clement’s Inn. 1750. 
“Robinson Crusoe” (1719), by Daniel De Foe, 
1661—1731. 

52 Captain Jack, titular hero of De Foe’s novel, 
“The History of the Most Extraordinary Adven- 
tures of the Truly Honorable Colonel Jacque, 
vulgarly called Colonel Jack,” 1722. 

“Political History of the Devil,” 1726, by 
Daniel De Foe. 

Windmill Island, an island in the Delaware River 
opposite the foot of Market Street, removed in 
recent years. 

55 “The Woodlands,” the mansion of Andrew 
Hamilton and in its time one of the most preten- 
tious in Philadelphia, still standing on Woodland 
Avenue in West Philadelphia. 

Dr. John Kearsley, trustee and overseer in re- 
building Christ Church. The tower and steeple 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 573 


were completed by him in 1754 and a chime of 
eight bells installed. 

Master Wren, Sir Christopher Wren. 1632-1723, 
English architect, designer of St. Paul's Cathedral, 
London. 

Andrew Hamilton, 1676-1741, one of the most 
illustrious lawyers and citizens of his time in 
Pennsylvania, and while Speaker of the Assembly, 
Supervisor of the erection of the State House. 
Rebecca Franks, sister of the wife of Andrew 
Hamilton and one of the belles of the Mischianza. 

56 Peggy Shippen, Margaret Shippen, one of the most 
beautiful women of the time and wife of Benedict 
Arnold. 

57 Bohea, a black tea, here applied to the choicest 
pickings. 

George Grenville, 1712-1770, who passed the 
Stamp Act. 

Thomas Gage, 1721-1787, British general and 
administrator ; Governor of Massachusetts, 1774- 
1775, commander of the British at Bunker Hill. 

59 Syllabub, same as sillibub, a dish made by com- 
bining milk and cream with wine and cider, and 
when flavored forming a soft curd. 

Margaret Chew, daughter of Benjamin Chew, a 
Lady of the Blended Rose in the Mischianza. 

61 James Wilson, 1742-1798, signer of the Declara- 
tion of Independence. His body was removed in 
recent years from North Carolina to Christ Church 
yard. 

62 Eighth Street, here Schuylkill Eighth, now 
Fifteenth Street. 


CHAPTER V 

Page 66 Non Importation Agreement ; one of the 
various agreements made by the Colonial Govern- 
ment (1768 to 1784) to prevent the importation 
of goods from Great Britain and her colonies. 
Lord North, 1732-1792, Frederick, Earl of Guil- 
ford, British Prime Minister, responsible for the 
American Revolution. , . ^ , , 

71 Master of the Rolls, a judge of the Court of 
Appeals, ranking next after the Lord Chief Justice 
of England, who has charge of the rolls and patents 
that pass the Great Seal and reach the Courts ot 

Sir D William Draper, 1721-1787, English officer 

Junius, pen name of an English writer of po- 
litical letters in “Public Advertiser,” 1769-17 <2, 


574 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


His identity was never revealed ; conjectured to be 
Sir Philip Francis. 

Marquis of Granby, 1721-1770, John Manners, 
an English General, Commander of the British 
troops in the Seven Years’ War. 

72 John Dickinson, 1732-1808, President of Penn- 
sylvania 1782-1785, a member of the National Con- 
stitutional Convention, founder of Dickinson 
College. Assuming the title of a Pennsylvania 
Farmer he published in 1767-1768 the “Farmer’s 
Letters” assailing the unjust attempt of the British 
Legislature to impose internal taxation in the 
Colonies. His motto was, Defence, Not Defiance. 

73 Steenkirk, a lace cravat, negligently worn, in 
fashion after the battle of Steenkirk, 1692,. in Bel- 
gium where the French gentlemen had to fight 
with disarranged cravats. 

Gold half-joes, a joe was a Portuguese coin, the 
johannes. 

75 Farriery, here the trade of shoeing horses. 
William Kidd, 1650-1701, British sea captain 
who afterward turned pirate in 1696, arrested in 
Boston in 1699, and hanged in London in 1701. 
Blackbeard, hero of a novel of the same name 
published in 1835. The scene is laid in Franklin’s 
time. 

King Street, now Water Street. 

Carronades, short-chambered ordnance pieces of 
large caliber, first made in the Carron Iron Works 
in Scotland, and formerly much used in naval en- 
gagements at close quarters. 

76 Cornets, formerly the lowest commissioned cavalry 
officers. 

81 India Company, one of the several companies 
formed by European countries for trade with India, 
specifically the one chartered by Queen Elizabeth 
in 1600 and given territorial powers from 1765 to 
1858 when this function was transferred to the 
crown. It was dissolved in 1873. 


CHAPTER VI 

Page 87 William Pitt, 1759-1806, Earl of Chatham, 
statesman and orator. Prime Minister. 

Sack, light colored Spanish wine; the term was 
applied in the 17th century to all strong white 
Southern wines. 

Physic, medicine. 

88 St. Peter’s Church, at Third and Pine Streets, 
the foundations of w T hich were laid in 1758. Its 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 575 


surrounding fence was used in the Revolution by 
the British troops for firewood. 

91 Petty’s Island, opposite Kensington in the 
Delaware River and owned by the State of New 
Jersey. 

Sib Richard Grenville, 1541-1591, an English 
Vice-Admiral with Raleigh in Virginia, who fell in 
Battle on The Revenge. See Tennyson’s “The 
Revenge.” 

97 Belial, the ancient personification of recklessness; 
the devil. 

98 Enrhume, sick with a cold. 

99 The Colony in Schuylkill, one of the peculiar 
institutions of Philadelphia and one of the most 
ancient and highly respectable societies in the 
United States founded for conviviality and ex- 
ercise, the Schuylkill Fishing Company of the State 
in Schuylkill founded in 1732 as the Colony in 
Schuylkill, located on the west bank of the River 
at “Eaglesfield.” In 1822 it moved its head- 
quarters to a point below Gray’s Ferry. 

100 Monmouth, the battle was fought on June 28, 
1778, near Monmouth Court House in New Jersey. 
Washington was pitted against Sir Henry Clinton. 
Charles Lee, 1731-1784, American general whose 
action nearly caused the American forces to lose 
the battle of Monmouth. 


CHAPTER VII 

Page 103 London Coffee House. Erected about 1702 
at Front and Market Streets. Established by 
Charles Read as a Coffee House in 1754. Until 
about 1780 the central place of popular resort in 
Philadelphia and the scene of many exciting in- 
cidents. 

106 Lord Chesterfield, 1694-1773, see his “Letters to 
Ilis Son.” 

107 Main, a hand or throw of dice. 

108 Laurence Sterne, 1713-1768, English clergyman 
and novelist. 

Facilis, see iEneid, Book VI. 

Jeremy Taylor, 1613-1667, Bishop and author of 
“Holy Living” and “Holy Dying.” 


CHAPTER VIII 

Page 113 Caliche, a woman’s hood having hoops like a 
calash, or carriage top. 

Page 120 Requiescat, a prayer for the rest of a departed 
soul. 


576 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


chapter x 

Page 133 Kaighn’s Point, on the New Jersey shore of 
the Delaware across from Market Street and to 
the South. 

Patrick Henry, 1736-1799, delivered the first 
speech in the Continental Congress, 1774. 

134 John Adams, 1735-1826, the American lawyer 
who became second President of the United States. 
John Quincy Adams, 1767-1848, son of John 
Adams, and sixth President of the United States. 

135 Bank Meeting House, the Quaker meeting house 
where evening meetings were held. It was also 
used for a time for the sessions of the Pennsylvania 
Assembly. 


CHAPTER XI 

Page 154 Cliveden, more popularly known as the Chew 
House now standing in Germantown. It was 
built by Chief Justice Benjamin Chew in 1763. 
On October 3 and 4, 1777, it was barricaded by 
Lieutenant-Colonel Musgrave of the British Regi- 
ment, and became the storm centre of the Battle of 
Germantown. 

155 Rev. Richard Peters, rector of Christ Church, 
from 1762-1775. 

Springetsbury, West of Bush Hill, one of the 
homes of the Hamilton family, and summer resi- 
dence of John Penn, near what is now known as 
Lemon Hill. 

Lansdowne, built by John Penn, before 1777, one 
of the pretentious mansions of the time, and named 
as a compliment to William Petty, Marquis of 
Lansdowne. 

Pillion. That is on a pad, on the horse’s back 
behind the saddle. 

159 The Wister House, built by John Wister in 1744, 
and occupied by him until 1789. It was the first 
house built in Germantown not erected for a per- 
manent dweller in that village. It was occupied 
by General Agnew in October, 1777. To-day a 
“substantial and venerable memorial of the past.” 

162 Valley Forge, so named from a forge erected 
prior to 1759. Washington chose the site for 
winter quarters in preference to Whitemarsh, ar- 
riving there December 19, 1777. “In these huts,” 
he writes, “the troops will be compact, more secure 
against surprises, than if in a divided state, and at 
hand to protect the country.” The headquarters 
building is in excellent state of preservation. 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 577 


Whitemarsh, part of the lands by the Indians 
called Umbilicamense. In 1713 referred to as wide 
marsh. The Continental Army encamped here 
from October 20 to December 11, 1777. 


CHAPTER XII 

Page 174 League Island, at the confluence of the Dela- 
ware and Schuylkill Rivers, now known as the 
Philadelphia Navy Yard. 

177 David Garrick, 1716-1779, English actor and 
dramatist. 

178 Botte, any sword stroke made in a duel. 

180 Desdemona, see Shakespeare’s “Othello.” 

181 Phthisis, tuberculosis of the lungs, less frequently 
tuberculosis of some other part of the body. 

183 Joseph, a long coat, often with a cape, formerly 
worn by men, also a similar garment worn by wo- 
men, especially on horseback. 


CHAPTER XIII 

Page 198 Carpenters’ Hall, on Chestnut Street between 
Third and Fourth Streets. The Carpenters’ Com- 
pany was formed in 1724 but the hall was not 
built until 1770. On July 15, 1774 a conference 
of the Committee of Safety was held within its 
walls. In the first story the First Continental 
Congress assembled and the first Provincial As- 
sembly was formed. It was in the possession of 
the British in 1777. . . , 

199 Jacob Duch^, 1739-1798, assistant minister of 
Christ Church and later in charge of St. Peter’s 
Church. He made a remarkable prayer in opening 
the First Continental Congress, and was appointed 
chaplain to Congress on July 9, 1776. He was 
the author of “Caspipinas Letters,” an entertaining 
and polished account of Philadelphia and Phila- 
delphians. ... . 

202 Temple Bar, a London gateway dividing Fleet 
Street from the Strand. Its site is marked by a 
Memorial erected in 1880. 

203 Bigwigs, from the large wigs worn by men of dis- 
tinction and importance, hence a man of high 

official standing. , ,, „ . 

205 Lexington, Massachusetts, the scene of the first 

armed resistance to the British, April 19, li <5. See 
Emerson’s poem, The Concord Hymn. 

213 Schuylkill-Eighth; now Fifteenth Street. 

214 See Cervantes’ “Don Quixote.” Part I written in 
1605, Part II, in 1615. 


578 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


219 Diachylon, a plaster of lead oxid, olive oil and 
water. 


CHAPTER XIV 

Page 228 Jesuits’ Bark, Cinchona or Peruvian bark. 

The source of quinine. Chinchon, the vice-queen 
of Peru, was cured by this bark. 

231 Ticonderoga, New York, taken from the British 
by Ethan Allen, May 10, 1775. 

237 Richard IIenry Lee, 1732-1794, American patriot 
who introduced into the first Congress the measure 
declaring the colonies free and independent States. 

238 The Neck, the Southernmost part of Philadelphia. 
Red Bank, on the Delaware about six miles below 
Camden and opposite Fort Mifflin. A monument is 
erected there in honor of Christopher Greene who 
in 1777 held Fort Mercer against the Hessians. 

244 Mechlin Lace, made in Mechlin, Belgium, with 
bobbin ground and designs outlined by thread or a 
flat cord. 

247 Robert Morris, 1734-1806, the distinguished 
financier of the American Revolution. 


CHAPTER XV 

Page 250 Washington’s Crossing of the Delaware near 
Trenton was on Christmas Night 1776. There are 
several paintings of this scene. The classic ones 
are by Leutze and Sully. 

252 Stenton, the seat of the Logan family, built in 
1728, now standing at Wayne Junction, Phila- 
delphia. 

253 Lafayette, Marquis de. Marie Jean Paul Roch 
Yves Gilbert Motier, 1757-1834, French general 
who offered his aid to Washington and sailed to 
America in 1777 to take a command in the Ameri- 
can Army, and later distinguished himself in the 
American cause. 

Saratoga, New York. The scene of Burgoyne’s 
surrender to General Gates, October 17, 1777. 
John Burgoyne, 1723-1792, British General and 
dramatist, author of “The Heiress.” 

261 Strappado, a former military punishment in which 
the offender was drawn up to the end of a rope, 
and allowed to fall suddenly till he w T as stopped 
with a jerk near the ground or floor. The hands 
were often fastened behind the back and the rope 
attached to the wrists. 

262 John Andre, 1751-1780, British major in the 
American Revolution hanged as a spy at Tappans- 


V 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 579 


town, New York, for complicity in the treason 
of Benedict Arnold. 

272 Bettering House, the Almshouse. 

274 Cohocksink, from the Indian name, Cuwenasink , 
“pine grove.” The banks of this stream afforded 
a site for one of the British batteries in 1777. 

280 Kiciiard Cosway, 1740-1821, distinguished English 
miniature painter. 

283 Worcester. To this township Washington with- 
drew on October 16, 1777. He wrote to Congress, 
“One motive for coming here is to direct the 
enemy’s attention from the forts.” 


CHAPTER XVI 

Page 286 Rambo’s Rock, on the East Bank of the Schuyl- 
kill near Gray’s Ferry and opposite Bartram’s gar- 
dens. 

287 John Bartram, 1699-1777, who established the 
first American botanical garden. Linnaeus says 
“he was the greatest natural botanist of his age.” 


CHAPTER XVII 

Page 313 Conestoga Wain, a style of broad- wheeled 
wagon for hauling freight, for deep soil and prairie 
traveling, originally made at Conestoga, Lancaster 
County, Pennsylvania. 

314 State House, Independence Hall, first occupied by 
the Assembly in 1735. 

340 Abatis, an obstruction formed as of felled trees, 
with the trunks embedded or laid in the ground, 
the smaller branches removed, and the sharpened 
ends of the larger branches pointed in the direction 
from which the attack is expected. 


CHAPTER XIX 

Page 355 Baron Steuben, 1730-1794, instructor general 
of the American Army with the rank of Major- 
General. lie was with Washington at Valley 
Forge from February 23, 1778 and from that time 
on rendered invaluable aid to the American army. 

360 Not fit for seigniors , not virginibus puerisque, 
suitable only for callow youth. 


CHAPTER XX 

Page 365 “The Mock Doctor,” 1732, a farce by Henry 


580 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 


Fielding, 1707-1754, an adaptation of Molifcre’s 
Meddcin Malgre Lui. 

“The Detjce is in Him,” 1732, one of the earliest 
plays given in New York and Philadelphia. 

367 Bombardier, an artillery man who has charge of 
morters and howitzers, bombs, etc. 

369 Walnut Grove, the mansion built by Joseph 
Wharton about 1735. It stood near what is now 
Fifth Street and Washington Avenue. It was 
notable as the scene of the Mischianza. 

Fandango, a Spanish dance in triple time, usually 
accompanied by castanets, but here it refers to the 
Mischianza. 


CHAPTER XXI 

Page 382 “The Fair Penitent,” 1703, a tragedy by 
Nicholas Rowe, 1674-1718. This play contains the 
characters of Lothario and Calista. 

“The Recruiting Officer,” by George Farquahar, 
1678-1707. 

383 Fives, a game in which a ball is struck by the 
hand against the front wall of a three-sided court. 

385 Centre Square, now covered by the City Hall at 
Broad and Market Streets. 

392 Mischianza, a tilt and tournament given on May 
18th 1778 at Walnut Grove, Wharton’s country 
seat in Southwark, by the officers of Sir William 
Howe’s army in his honor upon his relinquishing 
his command and just prior to his return to 
England. At the conclusion of the fete a set piece 
of fireworks was exploded and the legend Thy 
laurels are immortal was revealed against the back- 
ground of the night. 


CHAPTER XXII 

Page 395 William White, 1748-1836, consecrated Bishop 
of the Episcopal Church in Pennsylvania, February 
4, 1787. 

398 Piquet, a two-handed game of cards played with 
a pack from which the cards below seven are ex- 
cluded. 

403 The Provostry, the name given by the British to 
the prison at Sixth and Walnut Streets. 

405 St. Joseph’s, erected in 1731. The first Catholic 
Church in Philadelphia. On May 27, 1787, Wash- 
ington attended service there. 

410 Goloe-Shoes, goloshes, overshoes. 

411 Swift’s Brobdingnag. See “Gulliver’s Travels.” 


Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 581 


CHAPTER XXIII 

Page 417 Conway Cabal, a faction which in 1777 strove 
to supplant Washington by General Gates. 

CHAPTER XXIV 

Page 435 Ketch, a strongly built two-masted vessel, 
formerly partly square rigged forward, and often 
mounted with guns for naval warfare. 

440 Videttes, same as vedettes, mounted sentinels 
placed in advance of an outpost to watch the move- 
ments of the enemy and give warning of danger. 

CHAPTER XXVI 

Page 476 Count de Rochambeau, 1725-1807, a French 
general who distinguished himself in the Seven 
Years’ War, commanded the French allies in the 
American Revolution and afterward became mar- 
shal of France. 

Due de Lauzon, 1747-1793, Armand Louis de 
Gontant, a French general who served in the 
American Revolutionary War. 

CHAPTER XXVII 

Page 491 Ricochetted, skipped, glanced from the surface 
either once or with a series of rebounds. 

500 Pioneers, soldiers whose duty it is to march in 
advance, clearing away obstructions. 

Fascines, round bundles of rods or sticks bound 
together, used in building earthworks, filling ditches, 
etc. 

Sappers, soldiers employed in saps or in making 
trenches. 

501 Bengal Fires, colored fires varying in composition, 
as sulphur, meal-powder, antimony, and lampblack. 

507 Bastion, a work consisting of two faces and two 
flanks, all the angles being salient, usually designed 
to defend an adjacent curtain. 

518 Holy W ashington, pray for us. 

524 Calash, see Caliche. 

CHAPTER XXIX 

Page 541 Polonius. See Hamlet , Act 1. Scene iii. 

Macaroni, here foppish. A body of Maryland 


582 Hugh Wynne: Free Quaker 

soldiers were so named in the Revolutionary war 
because they wore showy uniforms. 

542 Shagreen, shark skin, or a rough-grained leather. 

CHAPTER XXX 

Page 548 Mt. Vernon, the homestead and burial place of 
Washington, fifteen miles below the city of Wash- 
ington on the Potomac River. 

CHAPTER XXXI 

Page 565 Fraunce’s Tavern, a building at the southeast 
Corner of Broad and Pearl Streets in New York 
City, headquarters of Washington after the British 
evacuation of New York, the scene of his farewell 
to his troops on December 4 r 1783. 


INDEX TO NOTES 


Abatis, 340 
Academy, The, 27 
Adams, John, 134 
Adams, John Quincy, 134 
Andr6, John, 262 
Arnold, Benedict, 7 

Baltimore, Lord, 14 
Bank Meeting House, 135 
Bartram, John, 287 
Bastion, 507 
Behn, Mrs. Aphra, 51 
Bengal Fires, 501 
Bettering House, 272 
Belial 97 
Bigwigs, 203 
Blackbeard, 75 
Bohea, 57 
Bombardier, 367 
Botte, 178 
Brevet Title, 40 
Brobdingnag, 411 
Burgoyne, 253 

Calash, 524 
Caleche, 113 
Camlet, 43 
“Captain Jack,” 52 
Carpenters’ Hall, 198 
Carronades, 75 
Centre Square, 385 
Cervantes, 214 
Charles II, 9 
Cliveden, 154 


Chelsea, 24 
Chesterfield, Lord, 106 
Chew, Margaret, 59 
Chin-Curtain, 42 
Christ Church, 3 
Cohocksink, 275 
Colony in Schuylkill, 99 
Conestoga Wain, 313 
Conway Cabal, 417 
Cornets, 76 
Cosway, Richard, 280 

Delft, 24 
Desdemona, 180 
“Deuce is in Him, The,” 365 
“Devil, History of the,” 52 
Diachylon, 219 
Dickinson, John, 72 
Dock Creek, 20 
Dove, David J., 26 
Draper, Sir William, 71 
Duch6, Jacob, 199 

Eighth Street, 62 
Enrhume, 98 

Fandango, 369 

“Fair Penitent, The,” 382 

Farriery, 75 

Fascines, 500 

Facilis, 108 

Ferguson, Mrs., 41 

Fesse, Eagles in, 9 

Fives, 383 

Fox, George, 16 


584 


Index to Notes 


Franklin, Benjamin, 3 
Franks, Rebecca, 55 
Fraunce’s Tavern, 565 

Gage, Thomas, 57 
Garrick, David, 177 
Georges, The, 4 
Goloe-shoes, 410 
Granby, Marquis of, 71 
Grenville, George, 57 
Grenville, Sir Richard, 91 
Guinea, 33 

Half -joes, 73 
Hamilton, Andrew, 55 
Henry, Patrick, 133 
High* Street, 38 
Hinlopen, 43 
Hollands, 43 
Hopkinson, Francis, 3 

India Company, 81 

Jacobean, 8 
James I, 14 
Jesuit's Bark, 228 
Johnson, Samuel, 21 
Junius, 71 
Joseph, 183 

Kaighn’s Point, 133 
Kearsley, John, 55 
Ketch, 75 
Kidd, William, 75 
King Street, 75 

Laetitia, 14 

Lafayette, Marquis, 253 
Lansdowne, 155 
Lauzon, Due de, 476 
League Island, 174 
Lee, Charles, 100 


Lee, Richard Henry, 237 
Lexington, 205 
Logan, William, 8 
London Coffee House, 103 
Loo-Mask, 42 

Macaroni, 541 
Madeira, 4 

Main, Throwing a, 107 
Mechlin, 244 
Melley, 47 
Merion Meeting, 18 
Merion, 14 
Midi, The, 19 
Mischianza, 392 
“Mock Doctor, The,” 365 
Mohair, 26 
Monmouth, 100 
Morris, Robert, 247 
Mt. Vernon, 548 

Neck, The, 238 
Non-Importation Agree- 
ment, 66 
North, Lord, 66 

Ombre, 40 

Peale, Charles Wilson, 39, 

Pemberton, James, 8 

Penn, John, 8 

Penn, William, 7 

Peters, Rev. Richard, 155 

Petty’s Island, 91 

Phthisis, 181 

Physic, 87 

Pillion, 155 

Piquet, 398 

Pioneers, 500 

Pitt, William, 87 

Polonius, 541 

Pound, a King’s, 30 


Index to Notes 


585 


Proudie Bishop, xxxiv 
Provostry, The, 403 

Quadrille, 40 

Rambo’s Rock, 286 
Randolph, Peyton, 3 
“Recruiting Officer, The, ,, 
382 

Red Bank, 238 
Requiescat, 120 
Reynolds, Joshua, 40 
Ricochetted, 491 
“Robinson Crusoe,” 51 
Rochambeau, 476 
Rolls, Master of the, 71 
Rush, Benjamin, 3 

Sack, 87 
Sappers, 500 
Saratoga, 253 
Safeguard, 43 
Schuylkill-Eighth, 213 
Secundum artem , 27 
Seigniors, 360 
Settle, 23 
Shagreen, 543 
Shilling, 33 
Shippen, Peggy, 56 
Simple, 20 

Slate Roof House, 26 
Spinet, 39 
Springetsbury, 155 
State House, 314 
State in Schuylkill, 99 
Steenkirk, 73 


Stenton, 252 
Sterne, Laurence, 108 
Steuben, Baron, 355 
St. Joseph’s Church, 405 
St. Peter’s Church, 88 
Strappado, 261 
Swift, Jonathan, 41 
Syllabub, 59 

Taylor, Jeremy, 108 
Temple Bar, 202 
Ticonderoga, 231 
Tithes, 11 
Treacle, 31 
Trumbull, John, 103 
“Tulkinghorn,” xxxiv 

Valley Forge, 162 
Videttes, 440 
Vizard, 42 

Washington’s Crossing, 250 
Washington , Sancte, 518 
Walnut Grove, 369 
Wetherill, Samuel, xxxv 
Whitemarsh, 162 
White, William, 395 
Whitfield, George, 27 
“Wilkins, Peter,” 51 
Wilson, James, 61 
Wister House, 159 
Windmill Island, 52 
“Woodlands, The,” 55 
Worcester, 283 
Wren, Master, 55 

Yorktown, 47 

















